I already wrote the words.

I just finished reading an article covering an essay that was written for the New York Times (on Christmas Eve) by Professor George Yancy of Emory University. Titled “Dear White America,” and is rather sanctimoniously offered as a “gift” to white people in this country.

I read it. It was written in a way that the voice in my head translated into a slow, grandfatherly, cadence, trying to patiently explain to a child why they shouldn’t touch the stove, or why it was important to look both ways before crossing the street.

I was going to write something about it, something grand and artful, yet truthful, and then I remembered that I already had.



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