Poem of The Day

I was sent an email from my aunt. I don't know how long she must have sent it because I am bad when it comes to checking them. However, the email was a poem, it says that Maya Angelou is the author but don't take my word for it. Even if she is not, I still think that this poem is awesome and should be heard.

Go and Hug Your "Michael"

Yesterday I cried watching the Michael Jackson memorial. I cried for a
little black boy who felt the world didn't understand him. I cried for
a little
black boy who spent his adulthood chasing his childhood. And I thought
about all the young black boys out there who may too feel that the world
doesn't understand them. The ones who feel that the world does not
understand
their baggy jeans, their swagger, their music, their anger, their
struggles,
their fears or the chip on their shoulder. I worry that my son, may too,
one day will feel lonely in a wide, wide world.
I cried for the young children of all colors who may live their life
feeling like a misfit, feeling like no one understands their
perspective, or
their soul. What a burden to carry.
As a mother, I cried for Katherine Jackson because no mother
should
ever
bury a child. Period. And I think about all the pain, tears and sleepless
nights that she must have endured seeing her baby boy in inner pain,
seeing him struggle with his self-esteem, and his insecurities and to
know he
often felt unloved even while the world loved him deeply. How does it feel to
think that the unconditional love we give as mothers just isn't enough
to make our children feel whole? I wonder if she still suffers
thinking, "what
more could I have done?" Even moms of music legends aren't immune to
mommy guilt, I suppose.
When Rev. Al Sharpton ("who always delivers one" awesome "funeral
speech") said to Michael's children, "Your daddy was not strange...It was
strange what your Daddy had to deal with," I thought of all the
"strange" things of
the world that my children will have to deal with. Better yet, the things I
hope they
won't ever have to deal with anymore.
And as a mother raising a young black boy, I feel recommitted and yet a
little confused as to how to make sure my son is sure enough within
himself to take on the world. Especially a "strange" one. To love
himself enough to
know that even when the world doesn't understand you, tries to force you
into its mold or treats you unkindly, you are still beautiful, strong
and Black. How do I do that?
Today, I am taking back "childhood" as an inalienable right for every
brown little one. In a world, that makes children into booty-shaking,
mini-adults long before their time, I'm reclaiming the playful,
innocent,
run-around-outside, childhood as the key ingredient in raising
confident adults.
Second, I will not rest until my little black boy, MY Michael, knows
that his broad nose is beautiful, his chocolately brown skin is
beautiful,
and
his thick hair is beautiful.
And nothing or no one can ever take that away from him.
"Now aint we bad? And ain't we black? And ain't we fine?