FORGIVENESS
I start walking home from school.
When I hear my name called, I turn around.
It’s him; yes,
him
, the one who once asked me,
“Why you do always try to act like one of us?”
All because I earn my A+ report card,
pushing through homework instead of
playing video games, not saying, “You ain’t,”
or “You is,” or “I’m doing good.”
“Hey, man,” he says, “I’m sorry for what I said to
you a while back.” I freeze in shock before matching
his extended hand with my own. “Wow, thanks, man.”
I say. “That means a lot. I’m curious though,
what made you apologize to me?” “Well,” he says,
“Last week a couple of African Americans
asked me the same question I asked you.”
