And this is what she told me, And this is my story I was born in Minnesota in 1945 And there were guns in Northern Africa And guns in central Italy There were men in the South Pacific Losing their lives My mother was a black woman And my father was a white man And in the middle of a Midwestern winter They took cover in the night And he fumbled with his apartment keys And she searched for conversation pieces And they sat down in his living room And the world disappeared You are the burlap sack, You are Indian silk You are the terror and comfort of night You are white and black, and I am chocolate milk I am the breadth, and you are the height You are all of the evil and the kindness I have seen... And I am the in-between And they talked about injustice And they talked about freedom And they talked about Hitler And made love to piss him off And they talked about forgiveness And they cried for their loneliness And they talked about belonging- immigrant lives And the snow raged past the window And they held on to each other And they stared out at Minnesota And everything looked the same And this is what she told me These many years later I was born in Minnesota in 1945