You
You-
You comment on my lips. Maybe some people just don’t like full lips or you know...a round nose. I cock my head unsure if this is an innocent addition to a conversation on racial preferences or a shadowy attack against people who look like me.
You comment on my skin. Say it looks beautiful against the indigo of the night sky. A compliment, this time I am sure. Yet, I am primed to believe the worse and still shrink from the overt attention given to my coloring. You say you love my skin. Again, a compliment. This one I believe, shared by one whose brown hues more closely resemble my own. The similarity helps to put my guards aside.
You ask me when I will get my hair done. My hair is currently done. Currently sheathed in the synthetic fibers delivered to a FedEx a ten minute walk from my bed. Your hatred of your hair has been transposed to mind. It must always be properly shielded. So much so that preparation for the next cage must begin before this one has been dismantled.
You say that black people are not from suburbia. You look at me strange when I know not of black greek life. You shut me out when I can’t name a song from Kendrick, Cudi, or SZA. You judge me. I am not black enough for you.
I fight to redefine my blackness against what you have said it should be. I fight to believe that there is more to blackness beyond a black I cannot be. I shape around myself a blackness that is strong, brave, nerdy. A blackness more rural than urban. A blackness of rock not rap. A blackness disparate from you. A blackness equal in pride to you.
-Me
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