When Hate Was But a Legend

What’s in a flag,
What does it mean?
Though I grew up North,
I schooled in the South (Hills).

There, our nickname
Was the Rebel Knights,
Our theme song Dixie,
Our flag, Confederate.

What did we know?
It all was just symbols
We embraced, of the south;
Hate was but a legend, then.

My father’s grandpa
Fought in that war,
Fought for the North,
His (our) side outlasted theirs.

Great Grandpa outlasted them all,
15 at Gettysburg, 93 at death,
The last 3-year enlistee alive,
Until he died, and then there were none.

I grew up proud to be
Descended from one who
Fought to free the slaves,
Who fought on the winning side.

I first tasted southern hatred
On my first ship, my first bite of grits
Gave me fits, they all laughed;
They hated my Yankee guts.

I didn’t understand their hatred,
Didn’t know that taste of defeat,
Hadn’t learned to blame others
For my own failures, as they seemed to do.

I failed on that ship, and blamed myself,
Though faced with their hate,
I turned within, outcast and alone,
Save for the friendship of a black man named Landers.

Landers, like me, was cast out,
The war had never ended in their eyes;
He traded their hatred for hate of his own,
But he found a place in his heart for me.

Landers helped me to understand,
How bitterness can boil a man’s heart,
His burned at a slow simmer,
Love a begrudging after-thought.

Escaping that southern prison, I headed north
Not the same, I’d learned of hate,
No longer a legend, but still not my choice;
Love healed my wounds, but I remembered.

Much has changed in the years since then,
That was forty-five long years ago;
That flag means hate to so many,
Pride to some, misplaced but simmering.

I understand but little of the struggle,
Of many souls to be free;
As for me, I follow my heart, embracing love,
Letting hate be but a legend, now known, but not chosen.