The Histories of Black

What if you found out
Who the person that you revered really was?
What if they lied a lot, or drank too much or made plans and cancelled often and for no reason, or kissed and told or hated him or herself and hid behind the fakeness of smiles?
What if you met your hero and saw all of the glaring flaws, the slovenly behavior, the insecurities, the tears, the constant mistakes?
Would you love them any less or would you, could you, love them a little more?
What if Phillis Wheatley spit when she spoke?
What if Langston Hughes refused to tip after a meal out?
What if Ntozake Shange was imprisoned for tax fraud?
What if James Baldwin tried human flesh?
What if you found out
Who the person that you worshiped really was?
What if they hurt people, or themselves, what if they struggled to get up after every dawn because the depression of existence was so strong and the pull of any tabooed vice was the only way that they could force themselves to do anything great at all?
Would you love them any less or would you, could you, love them a little more?
Could have been that they were all deviant, despicable, desperate anti heroes.
They are human, after all.
Like you.
Like me.
The most magnificent among us has fucked up.
The most brilliant among us has been a disaster to love.
The most talented among us has been ill and destroyed and tragically flawed on the whole…
They are human, after all.
So when you remember me…
(Please remember me)
When you do…
(please do)
remember that I too
was just a man
That I too
Did my very best, when inside and outside, I was the very worst of the bunch.

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