White Cocoon

Here in northern New England, the houses
are mostly white and so are the people.
The nighttime silence is only broken by
an 18-wheeler a mile away on the interstate.
I see racial injustice online and on TV,
but it’s far away and unreal because
I’m not on the receiving end of the abuse.
I’m not afraid for the lives of my
two adolescent great-grandsons.
I’m not in danger if stopped by the police.
Everyone in town knows me.
I’m white. I fit in.

I often feel ashamed of my privilege
and my inability to make a difference.
My contributions to Americares,
the Native American Heritage Association
and the Southern Poverty Law Conference
spread salve on the shame but don’t amount to much.
Watching musicians from around the world
in Playing for Change videos makes me
feel like I’m part of something.
But in the end I’m just a privileged
white guy in a white cocoon.