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

I want to write you a poem
That heals up your scars.
I want to send your hopes
Soaring up to the stars.
I want to clear away stones
From the path you take.
I want to be sure you never
Feel your heart ache or break.

I want to put that feeling
That you give me into a jar
So, I can feel it always
If you should travel very far.
I want to write a symphony
Of the music in your voice.
This is not loyalty or kindness.
I simply do not have a choice.

For you are what I prayed for
Before I ever knew you existed.
You are that magnetism
That I never once resisted.
You have always fit me
Like a split friendship locket.
There never was a moment
You didn’t have me in your pocket.

So, I want to do for you
What you have done for me.
I want to put a trillion stars
In your nighttime reality.
I want to let you know for sure
All that you have meant to me.
I want to share with you
Your gift of love and serenity.

I’m no longer a resident
Of self-pity City
And I most certainly
Am not the mayor
I’ve given up crying
And eighty sixed whining
“It’s just not fair!”

Now I don’t ask “Why me, God?”
I realized I was wishing another
Poor somebody suffered my fate.
Who? My sister, father, mother?
When did I gain so much clout
That I deserve a better fate
That moves me up so high
And makes the rest second rate?

I’m no longer a resident
Of self-pity City
And I most certainly
Am not the mayor
I’ve given up crying
And eighty sixed whining
“It’s just not fair!”

I had to take stock of life
And realize I have what I need.
Anything else is at least excess
But even more likely it’s greed.
I was looking around to see
What my neighbors had got
And running to my toy box
Moaning of what I had not.

Did I look around me and see
The many who had so little?
Not a crust of bread or a home
Where they could sit and whittle?
So many had no toys at all
They were grateful for a bed;
A place where they could be safe
When they lay down their head.

I’m no longer a resident
Of self-pity City
And I most certainly
Am not the mayor
I’ve given up crying
And eighty sixed whining
“It’s just not fair!”

Finally I awoke and saw the truth,
How much I need to be grateful for;
For breathing and resting and joy
A roof, for walls and a floor.
And a place to call my own home
When so many don’t have one.
The day I counted my blessings
Was when a good life was begun.

I’m no longer a resident
Of self-pity City
And I most certainly
Am not the mayor
I’ve given up crying
And eighty sixed whining
“It’s just not fair!”

Sometimes it rains a bit
And you aren’t prepared
But it can be rather pretty
So, don’t be so scared.
It cools the temperature
From the clouds above,
Makes a walk the kind
The kind you grow to love.

You won’t need an umbrella;
So what if it’s a smattering?
Nothing wrong with that,
A bit of misty spattering?
Just a bit of a shower
Nothing bad in that.
Be a very happy person,
Under the brim of a hat

A bit of a puddle at times
Depending on your shoes.
It is not a big tragedy
No reason for the blues.
It’s just you and nature
Enjoying the day together.
Mother Nature and child
Spending time with each other.

So go ahead and wander
Out in the misting rain.
Take a cleansing saunter
Let weather clear the brain.
Celebrate just being here
A world gone squeaky clean
Like a painting by Monet
In an artist’s magazine.

I am older
You are younger
You are brown
And I am white.
I eat well while
Your folks hunger.
You work hard
So that isn’t right.

You are religious,
I am surely not.
This almost the only
Difference we’ve got.
You eat veggies
And I eat meat.
You can kiss your
Lover in the street.

You like watching football
I like swimming laps.
That doesn’t mean
Football games are crap.
You like pickup trucks
I prefer a speedy coupe.
I like a four course meal
You like salad and soup.

You like hip hop songs
I prefer classic rock.
You think my music went
Out with argyle socks.
You like horror flicks
I prefer great comedies.
There’s nothing wrong with us
We don’t need any remedies.

We are simply different
In what we know and choose.
Being who and what we are
Should not bring on the blues.
Humanity is growing up
And seeing differences exist.
You are you and I am I.
Who has the right to insist?

It has been a year
Exactly one year to the day
When we decided to say
I do, again, forever, together.

And never a day goes by
That I don’t try to hold you
And tell you again how much
You mean, your voice, your touch.
The only things that matter
Are these smatterings of moments
Like hugs and kisses good morning
And the same at bedtime at night.
These things are right and the best
Better than all the rest in life
Worth any strife, any price,
Several steps beyond nice
They are what fuels my hopes
And my peaceful dreams.

It seems that sometimes quickly
There are tickly moments to bear
Like a bolt out of somewhere
That must be suffered through
But as I do, there are you
Smiling saying it will pass
And just that fast, it does.
What it was is then a memory
And no longer vexes me
Because what is important is us
And not a sorrow that once was.

So, here is yet another toast
To what matters most, you and I
Learning from what has gone by
And building toward a great future
That is the two of us together
And never a regret that we are
Who we are, not wishing on a star
But accepting and reveling
In what we have now
And happy with how
Things can work out for two
Like me and like you.

Where are those killing fields?
They are wherever we see
The Master Race ignoring
Peace, love and equality.

If you’re not white
And your state is red,
Don’t be surprised
If you end up dead.
As maybe some one
Will beat on your head
And demand to know
What goes on in your bed.

If you are any race
But Holy Caucasian
Like African or Inuit,
Mexican or Asian
That includes Islam
And all such nations
The bigots will hate
On every occasion.

Where are those killing fields?
They are wherever we see
The Master Race ignoring
Peace, love and equality.

In World War Two we
Fought against fascism
And now we entertain
An unholy American schism
In which Americans plan
With gleeful fanaticism
To make every effort
To maintain totalitarianism.
For over two centuries
We have sung of equality
And the inalienable rights
Of American humanity.
We continue to fight now
But it has become a calamity
Because now we are fighting
Within each of our families.

Where are those killing fields?
They are wherever we see
The Master Race ignoring
Peace, love and equality.

There is an ancient woman
In the market near my home
Who walks the timeless amble
Of a battered soul alone.
Her pasted orange tresses
A marmalade cascade
Fall so stiffly down to where
Her hand is always laid
Clutching her treasure bag
She goes her way careless
Ignoring chiding glances
At her faded evening dress.

Her story hides in rumors
Whispered by those who work
In the shops and restaurants
Here near McArthur Park.
They say she was a movie queen
Or an extra in the silent days
And an accident at the studio
Made her bald unto this day.
She refused to remove the wig
She ran out crying, in costume
And now she is still wearing it
Hoping he will find her soon.

The woman at the pharmacy
Said her hair caught on fire
At a movie in the twenties
Her boss calls her a liar;
Says the leading man did it
In a fit of rage and jealousy
When she wouldn't marry him
He set fire to the scenery.
Others heard that she was fired,
But she wouldn't leave the set
So deep inside her mind
She really hasn't left it yet.

Some have tried to talk to her
But she never speaks that much
Except inquiring prices and colors
Of the goods she chances to touch.
To direct questions and advances
She turns sadly away and leaves.
You can tell she is sensitive
You can tell by her face she grieves.
It is easy to see she is living
In some world that is not ours
Her world seems a place of gloom
Of thunderstorms and showers.

She caresses with her fingertips
Along the banisters she passes
And she seldom lets her gaze linger
Behind her smoked sunglasses.
Her satin dress has faded,
Like the color of her hair.
She still lingers in each moment
When she walks down the stair.
She never seems to notice those
Who stop and goggle at her
And they are many, these gawkers
But they just don’t' seem to matter.

She seems to have accepted
What her life has now become.
She has been coming to the park
For decades more than some.
This may be a playground
For popeyed urban gnomes.
But this is where she shops
This decaying place her home.
This park is very much like her
Many ages past its prime.
The vestiges of past glory
Have not been erased by time.