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    America, My America

    America, My America Though you say I am not yours, though you pissed all over my front door with your black graffiti hissing “Go back home chink!” you are still my America.       Because I believe in you, not in your greatness but in your capacity to repent. Though you think you are great — drunk with blood, and puke your vulgarity, you are still my America. For when you are sober, you are an inspired poet. Your song of independence is painfully beautiful. Though you don’t believe in your own rhetoric, I believe in the words that constitute you, my doubting poet, that we are all endowed by the…