Stony the road we trod, bitter the chast’ning rod, felt in the days when hope, unborn, had died. Yet with a steady beat have not our weary feet come to the place for which our fathers sighed. — James Weldon Johnson, Lift Ev’ry Voice and Sing
When America looks at me, they see a Black man.
I find this to be tiring.
I find this to be limiting.
Nevertheless, I find it to be true.