I found myself facedown in the dirt,
With my tormentors down the hall.
They had told me “get up and get hurt,”
About halfway through the fall.
The sour taste of blood in my mouth
Mixed anger into my shame,
It wasn’t because I was from the south,
But it hurt just the same.
And after they had walked away,
I pulled myself out of the dirt.
I vowed that they would pay
For the stains left on my shirt.
I wiped my chin, and dusted off,
And went about my week.
Still, every day, I’d hear a scoff,
Or someone call me meek.
Until one day I found myself,
Standing strong and six feet tall.
In stature and fortitude I’d been granted a wealth,
To fight back against them all.
And yet I’ll never forget that day,
As a miserable, lonely squirt.
To make the decision to get up and say,
“Not today,” from in the dirt.