By GRACE OCASIO MANDELA I His hands were wiser than words, sharper than knives and scissors. The hands weren’t used like blades of swords to slash faces, lop off heads. The hands weren’t your hands. But could have been. Could still be your hands. Because his hands wove magic in a land that believed in curses and witchcraft. He whited out segregation with his typewriter, from the air, and out of the heart. He only served one term as president, a fact that should lead you to conclude that yes, you could be him. II You could be the lawyer of the twenty-first century who lectures addicts, defends each and every inner-city youth. You could be the one who whites out the blood on urban streets, the snot from scrawny black kids’ noses, the glazed looks of mommies on crack who mumble and lurch in cars while their children ride playground swings and slides by themselves. You could be the one: take your blue-black magic marker and strike out the fear in the whites of people’s eyes. 132 You could be the one who brush strokes away cordoned off back roads and deadend streets. You could be the one, setting your lips sober to do your mission.