My freshman year of college I attended a poetry reading by Inada. He read this poem from Legends from Camp. I liked it so much I bought two of his books.

Rayford's song was Rayford's song,
but it was not his alone, to own.

He had it, though, and kept it to himself
as we rowed-rowed-rowed the boat
through English country gardens
with all the whispering hope
we could muster, along with occasional
choruses of funiculi-funicula!

Weren't we a cheery lot--
coming 'round the mountain
with Susanna, banjos on our knees,
rompin' through the leaves
of the third-grade music textbook.

Then Rayford Butler raised his hand.
For the first time, actually,
in all the weeks he had been in class,
and for the only time before he'd leave.
Yes, quiet Rayford, silent Rayford,
little Rayford, dark Rayford--
always in the same overalls--
that Rayford, Rayford Butler, raised his hand:

"Miss Gordon, ma'am--
we always singing your songs.
Could I sing one of my own?"

Pause. We looked at one another;
we looked at Rayford Butler;
we looked up at Miss Gordon, who said:

"Well, I suppose so, Rayford--
if you insist. Go ahead.
Just one song. Make it short."

And Rayford Butler stood up very straight,
and in his high voice, sang:

"Suh-whing ah-loooow,
suh-wheeet ah-charr-eee-oohh,
ah-comin' for to carr-eee
meee ah-hooooome..."

Pause. Classroom, school, schoolyard,
neighborhood, the whole world
focusing on that one song, one voice
which had a light to it, making even
Miss Gordon's white hair shine
in the glory of it, glowing
in the radiance of the song.

Pause. Rayford Butler sat down.
And while the rest of us
may have been spellbound,
on Miss Gordon's face
was something like a smile,
or perhaps a frown:

"Very good, Rayford.
However, I must correct you:
the word is 'chariot.'
'Chariot.' There is no
such thing as a 'chario.'
Do you understand me?"

"But Miss Gordon..."

"I said 'chariot, chariot.'
Can you pronounce that for me?"

"Yes, Miss Gordon. Chariot."

"Very good, Rayford.
Now, class, before we return
to our book, would anyone else
care to a sing a song of their own?"

Our songs, our songs, were there--
on tips of tongues, but stuck
in throats--songs of love,
fun, animals, and valor, songs
of other lands, in other languages,
but they just wouldn't come out.
Where did our voices go?

Rayford's song was Rayford's song,
but it was not his alone, to own.

"Well, then, class--
let's turn our books to
'Old Black Joe.'"

After Lawson Inada read this poem to us he told us that it's a true story from his childhood and that, of course, the teacher was wrong. If you pronounce the word chariot then the song doesn't rhyme. Rayford was singing the song the way it was originally sung by slaves in the South.