If I Wasn’t Black I Wouldn’t Be Writing This



At certain points throughout the day, I find myself looking at all these beautifully unique, intricate masterpieces. All of them look different from one another, but belong to one another in this way I can’t help but to announce to myself.

Everyone is white, here… Mostly pale white. I’m this deep red brown from the sand of some sea I can’t pronounce or seem to remember.

I’m here. Aren’t I here? Where are the ones that look like me. Sure there are little pockets of us occupying the street. But not many of us. If you understand where I am going, please buy a ticket.
An artist is an artist is an artist, but when an artist is a black, makes an artist be black.

Surprisingly I’m my journey thus far, with the beer in hand I’m having conversation, in my head to myself, trying to understand where I fit in the puzzle. I remembered, aha! I’ve got to find a knife and manipulate the skin of the body I’ve got to be a part of. Isn’t it my place as well?

When I go to work my coworkers listen to music with the word nigger in it, and every time a rapper raises his voice or whisper the syllable, they turn around and look at me. They look at me. I look in front of me and keep my thoughts in my brain.

It’s not that I wake up to Malcolm X, or Gil Scot Heron waking me up, or Sonia Sanchez in my head, but it’s that for every carefree black girl I know or see, there’s a million shackled blacks waiting to be freed.

I’m just here. Here, right now. Here with you. And them and all the colors, even the pale, just here.


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