The Color Purple

(c.1988)

I have developed an empathy with the blacks after sitting through The Color Purple last night. I am presently basking in the light of a goldberg, winfrey, deserata jackson and of a nikki giovani who introduced me to black poetry. The color was so vividly moving that I had to cry with so much heart, in spite of myself. But I confess I kept being stirred that I am not black but brown. In short, I have not quite followed how it is to be brown if such as the matter of being any other skin color, as opposed to white, is concerned. How could God anyway have allowed this disparity to take over us humans when all that would be left of us are the ashes of our banalities. As life here on earth extends to our eyes, I can see that black is very beautiful. It, being the manifestation of all brooding silences, leaves us feeling pointless in so much of our self-calculations. Dust is black after all. Or gray.....or so i'm stoned...