I was born in the County Hospital in Sacramento, California, in 1943, and they issued me my Black Card, but they spelled it N-E-G-R-O.
On my first day, in the first grade, in my segregated School in Vienna, Virginia, they saw my Black Card and called me colored.
On my first day at my junior high school, which was mostly Black, Brown, and Yellow, students saw my Black Card and called me brother.
In my middle-class, White-dominated high school, they saw my Black Card and called me a trade school student/athlete.
When I enlisted in the Air Force, they saw my Black Card and called me Airman.
When I arrived back home in Sacramento after my Air Force tour, I tried to rent an apartment, but they played the Black Card against me and treated me like a nigger.
When I met my wife-to-be, we were both card-carrying members of the Black Student Union.
When I enrolled at UC Davis, they saw my Black Card, and some called me an unqualified affirmative-action admission.
When the state of California hired me as a Youth Counselor, they saw my Black Card and hoped I could speak a Black prison dialect.
When I was an attorney, my employer played my Black Card when they assigned me to a case against a high-profile Black politician.
When I finally got my teaching opportunity at a community college, it was because they needed a Black Card carrier to teach US African American history.
When I retired and turned to writing, my first story was published by a Black publisher in Brooklyn who saw my Black Card in my story and called me a writer.
My significant other saw my Black Card and much more and called me her lover.
My tombstone will read, “Black Card Expired on [date].”
On my first day, in the first grade, in my segregated School in Vienna, Virginia, they saw my Black Card and called me colored.
On my first day at my junior high school, which was mostly Black, Brown, and Yellow, students saw my Black Card and called me brother.
In my middle-class, White-dominated high school, they saw my Black Card and called me a trade school student/athlete.
When I enlisted in the Air Force, they saw my Black Card and called me Airman.
When I arrived back home in Sacramento after my Air Force tour, I tried to rent an apartment, but they played the Black Card against me and treated me like a nigger.
When I met my wife-to-be, we were both card-carrying members of the Black Student Union.
When I enrolled at UC Davis, they saw my Black Card, and some called me an unqualified affirmative-action admission.
When the state of California hired me as a Youth Counselor, they saw my Black Card and hoped I could speak a Black prison dialect.
When I was an attorney, my employer played my Black Card when they assigned me to a case against a high-profile Black politician.
When I finally got my teaching opportunity at a community college, it was because they needed a Black Card carrier to teach US African American history.
When I retired and turned to writing, my first story was published by a Black publisher in Brooklyn who saw my Black Card in my story and called me a writer.
My significant other saw my Black Card and much more and called me her lover.
My tombstone will read, “Black Card Expired on [date].”
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