I find solace in literature and art. Here's Derek Walcott, from a long poem, "The Schooner FLIGHT":

I taking a sea bath, I gone down the road.   
I know these islands from Monos to Nassau,   
a rusty head sailor with sea-green eyes   
that they nickname Shabine, the patois for   
any red n-----, and I, Shabine, saw   
when these slums of empire was paradise.   
I’m just a red n----- who love the sea,   
I had a sound colonial education,
I have Dutch, n-----, and English in me,   
and either I’m nobody, or I’m a nation...

I had no nation now but the imagination.
After the white man, the n-----s didn’t want me   
when the power swing to their side.
The first chain my hands and apologize, “History”;   
the next said I wasn’t black enough for their pride.   
Tell me, what power, on these unknown rocks—
a spray-plane Air Force, the Fire Brigade,
the Red Cross, the Regiment, two, three police dogs   
that pass before you finish bawling “Parade!”?   
I met History once, but he ain’t recognize me,

a parchment Creole, with warts
like an old sea bottle, crawling like a crab
through the holes of shadow cast by the net
of a grille balcony; cream linen, cream hat.
I confront him and shout, “Sir, is Shabine!
They say I’se your grandson. You remember Grandma,   
your black cook, at all?” The bitch hawk and spat.   
A spit like that worth any number of words.
But that’s all them bastards have left us: words.

[Note: I bowdlerized the text; the full poem, uncensored version, is here: The Schooner FLIGHT