In which I skip out on Instagram and Facebook for the month of March but still allow myself the internet.

Today’s post is not a happy one, brought to you as it is by the horrific history of American slavery and the manner in which we continue to perpetuate racism in this country.

In addition to reading The Book of Delights, I have been reading White Fragility: Why It’s So Hard To Talk To White People About Race.

Spoiler alert: If you are a white friend of mine, you may be getting one or both of these in the mail in the near future. I know reading actual books is unfashionable, and if you get the latter book you might feel defensive or insulted. It will be ok. Please read it anyway.

In one of this morning’s essays, Ross Gay talks about the genesis of the phrase “hole in the head,” and then tells the story of Vertus Hardiman, a man who, at age five, was experimented on with radiation.

Because here in the U.S., we experiment on black children. We enslave whole generations of people, break up their families, and blame them for the racist structure of the country.

We experiment on black children. I cannot put into words the grief I feel over this.

And then there is this:

Sorrow Is Not My Name
By Ross Gay
—after Gwendolyn Brooks

No matter the pull toward brink. No
matter the florid, deep sleep awaits.
There is a time for everything. Look,
just this morning a vulture
nodded his red, grizzled head at me,
and I looked at him, admiring
the sickle of his beak.
Then the wind kicked up, and,
after arranging that good suit of feathers
he up and took off.
Just like that. And to boot,
there are, on this planet alone, something like two
million naturally occurring sweet things,
some with names so generous as to kick
the steel from my knees: agave, persimmon,
stick ball, the purple okra I bought for two bucks
at the market. Think of that. The long night,
the skeleton in the mirror, the man behind me
on the bus taking notes, yeah, yeah.
But look; my niece is running through a field
calling my name. My neighbor sings like an angel
and at the end of my block is a basketball court.
I remember. My color’s green. I’m spring.

If you share nothing else that I write, if you comment on nothing or barely pass by the words that I put down, if you cannot even be bothered to click the little “thumbs up” on your Facebook page, please share this post. I don’t care on what channels you share it, I don’t care what caption you place on it or if you are horrified and disgusted that I would post this and want to write about how awful I am.

Good. Share it anyway.