Randolf the bluenosed bigot
Much preferred to tell a lie;
Even if truth fit better
But he never quite knew why.
It was the way he grew up
Telling tales instead of truth.
It was the way his folks were
Ever since his very youth.

Lists of people are no good;
Black and yellow are the worst.
There is a list of who's okay.
White Republicans come first.
And if the truth is told here
Rights belong just to the white.
Granting rights to gals and gays
Never can be truly right.

Randolf thinks God's on his side.;
Made some of the people best.
Being Caucasian and Christian
Puts him ahead of all the rest.
Randolf thinks we all should do
What his religion says to do.
All of that crap about equality,
Randolf doesn't think it's true.

I found seashells and driftwood,
Cans and bottles and much more
Like diapers and picnic stuff
While walking along the shore.
I found cigarette butts and bags
And those horrendous soda holders
That catch on sea life and twist them
In their middle or at their shoulder.

I saw palm trees and jacaranda
Waving in the balmy breeze
And broken plastic lawn chairs
Leaning against the lovely trees.
I found six-packer carriers sitting
With all the beer bottles inside.
I saw pieces of bicycles and big batteries
And I swear I almost sat and cried.

But I had too much to do right then
Gathering up all that random junk.
I carried them to a ******* bin
And I threw it all in, kerthunk!
I wondered for the hundredth time
The parents these creeps had
That let them grow so ill behaved,
And so embarrassingly bad.

What kind of selfish brat can come
And look out on this lovely scene
And throw their ******* all around?
How can they be so mean?
It makes me hope for recompense;
That what goes around come again
And we can stash these human pigs
Into an appropriate kind of pen.

Are you still beating your babies?
Are you still punching your kid?
Are you still calling it discipline;
Not the worst thing you ever did?
Is it always a case of deserving
The punishment you mete out?
Where you teach them what is what;
Call them disgusting names and shout?

Break out the heavy leather belt
Go cut me a big switch
You kids are ******* me off
You’re giving me a big itch.
Bend yourself over here
Don’t run and make me catch you.
Remember this is all your fault.
You’re making me do this to you.

When you get in the mood to punish
Do dress in a special costume?
Does it have to take place in a woodshed
Or in some special kind of room?
Do you double up your fist and hit
Or do you have special equipment?
Does the physical treatment you hand out
Contribute to your fulfillment?

Break out the heavy leather belt
Go cut me a big switch
You kids are ******* me off
You’re giving me a big itch.
Bend yourself over here
Don't run and make me catch you.
Remember this is all your fault.
You’re making me do this to you.

In a world of deserving irony
You’d have to wear a disguise
So neighbors would know about you
And authorities could be made wise.
Then someone could call in specialists
To give some of what you give
And teach you eye-for-an-eye truth
About the way you live.

Break out the heavy leather belt
Go cut me a big switch
You kids are ******* me off
You’re giving me a big itch.
Bend yourself over here
Don't run and make me catch you.
Remember this is all your fault.
You’re making me do this to you.

She was a little stick of a thing
More of a twig than a branch.
She had freckles instead of makeup
But man could that girl dance!
She wore a sack of a dress
With simple holes for her arms
But I was immediately captured
By her open-hearted charm.

It was an accidental meeting
And a charming mental greeting
Two strangers seeking seating
That did not end up as fleeting.

I didn’t own a crystal ball
So I could certainly not see
What this little bit of a girl
Would come to mean to me.
She had beautiful eyes
The color of aged whiskey
That could make a guy
Want to do something risky.

A lovely accidental meeting
And a charming mental greeting
Two strangers seeking seating
That did not end up as fleeting.

So I took her with me dancing
As a harmless thing to do
For two people who are strangers
To whom everything is new.
I expected it to be awkward
Could this beauty even dance?
How was I to know that this
Would be the start of romance?

A simple accidental meeting
And a charming mental greeting
Two strangers seeking seating
That did not end up as fleeting.

There were no blacks
In our part of town
No Asians, no Latinos
None of them around.
There were Italians,
They were treated well.
But anyone of color
Might run into hell.

Pastel America
Everything sort of beige.
It’s good to be pink in America.
Caucasian is all the rage.
Whenever movies showed
A crowd of good folk
They were all Caucasian
And this is not a joke.

I was raised on TV shows
Like Lassie and ******
And there were no blacks
Living near the Cleavers.
There was no understanding
Of life for any non-whites.
When I grew up I saw
That little I learned was right.

Pastel America
Everything sort of beige.
It’s good to be pink in America.
Caucasian is all the rage.
Whenever movies showed
A crowd of good folk
They were all Caucasian
And this is not a joke.

There were radio stations then
Where black music could not play.
They had to get around that
Some other sneaky way.
That’s how we got Elvis,
To fill that gaping lack.
He got his first opportunity
Because he sounded black.

Pastel America
Everything sort of beige.
It’s good to be pink in America.
Caucasian is all the rage.
Maybe it will change someday
When we all celebrate
The diversity of humanity.
Wouldn’t that be great?

Everybody told me
You think only of yourself.
There’s no room in your heart
For anybody else.
But just like every fool
Ever born or ever was.
I had to find out for myself
Because, just because.

Lipstick on the mirror
Gave the whole thing away.
I didn’t really understand
Until I woke up that day.
You only love yourself it seems
And I just didn’t see before.
There’s room in your life for you
And no room for one more.

I began to notice how difficult
It was to walk down the boulevard.
You kept looking into the windows
And seemed to be looking hard.
At first what you were looking at
Managed to escape my detection.
After I while I realized the truth.
You were looking at your reflection.

I knew you would not go outside
If your hair was not done quite right.
To try to say it was good enough
Was to encourage another fight.
Every detail of clothing must be
Perfection all the way through
That meant I had to be perfect
As I was an extension of you.

Lipstick on the mirror
Gave the whole thing away.
I didn’t really understand
Until I woke up that day.
You only love yourself it seems
And I just didn’t see before.
There’s room in your life for you
And no room for one more.

Now I look at the photographs
You have kept in a scrapbook.
I see that you have the ones of you
When you like the way you look.
The pictures of me are there
But only if you are also in the shot.
It’s easy to see that you matter
And easier to see I do not.


Lipstick on the mirror
Gave the whole thing away.
I didn’t really understand
Until I woke up that day.
You only love yourself it seems
And I just didn’t see before.
There’s room in your life for you
And no room for one more.

(I seldom publish anyone else's poetry, but this one is so exceptional on so many levels, I had to reproduce it here. Hillary Clinton reposted it, so why not me?)

“Education then, beyond all other devices of human origin,
Is a great equalizer of the conditions of men.” – Horace Mann, 1848.
At the time of his remarks I couldn’t read — couldn’t write.
Any attempt to do so, punishable by death.
For generations we have known of knowledge’s infinite power.
Yet somehow, we’ve never questioned the keeper of the keys —
The guardians of information.

Unfortunately, I’ve seen more dividing and conquering
In this order of operations — a heinous miscalculation of reality.
For some, the only difference between a classroom and a plantation is time.
How many times must we be made to feel like quotas —
Like tokens in coined phrases? —
“Diversity. Inclusion”
There are days I feel like one, like only —
A lonely blossom in a briar patch of broken promises.
But I’ve always been a thorn in the side of injustice.

Disruptive. Talkative. A distraction.
With a passion that transcends the confines of my consciousness —
Beyond your curriculum, beyond your standards.
I stand here, a manifestation of love and pain,
With veins pumping revolution.
I am the strange fruit that grew too ripe for the poplar tree.
I am a DREAM Act, Dream Deferred incarnate.
I am a movement – an amalgam of memories America would care to forget
My past, alone won’t allow me to sit still.
So my body, like the mind
Cannot be contained.

As educators, rather than raising your voices
Over the rustling of our chains,
Take them off. Un-cuff us.
Unencumbered by the lumbering weight
Of poverty and privilege,
Policy and ignorance.

I was in the 7th grade, when Ms. Parker told me,
“Donovan, we can put your excess energy to good use!”
And she introduced me to the sound of my own voice.
She gave me a stage. A platform.
She told me that our stories are ladders
That make it easier for us to touch the stars.
So climb and grab them.
Keep climbing. Grab them.
Spill your emotions in the big dipper and pour out your soul.
Light up the world with your luminous allure.

To educate requires Galileo-like patience.
Today, when I look my students in the eyes, all I see are constellations.
If you take the time to connect the dots,
You can plot the true shape of their genius —
Shining in their darkest hour.

I look each of my students in the eyes,
And see the same light that aligned Orion’s Belt
And the pyramids of Giza.
I see the same twinkle
That guided Harriet to freedom.
I see them. Beneath their masks and mischief,
Exists an authentic frustration;
An enslavement to your standardized assessments.

At the core, none of us were meant to be common.
We were born to be comets,
Darting across space and time —
Leaving our mark as we crash into everything.
A crater is a reminder that something amazing happened here —
An indelible impact that shook up the world.
Are we not astronomers — looking for the next shooting star?
I teach in hopes of turning content, into rocket ships —
Tribulations into telescopes,
So a child can see their potential from right where they stand.
An injustice is telling them they are stars
Without acknowledging night that surrounds them.
Injustice is telling them education is the key
While you continue to change the locks.

Education is no equalizer —
Rather, it is the sleep that precedes the American Dream.
So wake up — wake up! Lift your voices
Until you’ve patched every hole in a child’s broken sky.
Wake up every child so they know of their celestial potential.
I’ve been a Black hole in the classroom for far too long;
Absorbing everything, without allowing my light escape.
But those days are done. I belong among the stars.
And so do you. And so do they.
Together, we can inspire galaxies of greatness
For generations to come.
No, sky is not the limit. It is only the beginning.
Lift off.

Donovan Livingston
Harvard Commencement 2016