By: Elise R. Sampson
Hey America—
Do me a favor
Don’t ask me to explain my blackness.
Not my hair,
Not my skin,
Not my intelligence nor anything else that comes from within.
Within this skin.
Beautiful brown pecan with a kiss from the summer sun
Pale as the wood lining my kitchen cabinets when the summer’s gone
I love myself but you don’t want to see me happy
Much like that ex that I no longer miss
yet he still calls…
Each one after him reminds me that my decision making is still flawed,
maybe even more than it was before him
Or maybe it’s the beautiful black men on my timeline paired with foreign women and cars that makes me feel null
Despite the trickery that social media and propaganda might try to play on me
Maya Angelou’s “Still I rise”, gives me strength when I look at these thighs or my big, round, deep brown eyes. As beautiful as my Black is, has Black become synonymous with demise?
Is my Blackness something I should hide?
I’m living scared,
Fighting everyday not to piss off some emasculated, white fool with a gun and badge or a Becky who absolutely will not shop in the same establishments as a nigger gal.
I pray and tithe
I pay taxes
I vote in every election
I attend city council and school board meetings
I donate to Black Lives Matter
I paint murals til my hands bleed
I’ve educated peers and professors on why our hair is different
I make sure to use my white girl voice on the phone
I tell my nieces and nephews that they are beautiful in their Black skin
I post novels about injustice on my timeline til I’m blue in the face, and no matter how Black I project myself to be, everyday I wake up to nooses, gunshots, knees on necks, unlawful search and seizures, murderers maintaining their jobs and no charges being filed.
Where is the change Sam Cooke told us was coming?
I just knew that if I prayed a little harder, went to that rally, made myself a token Black girl in college and at my job then the murders would cease.
Surely there are millions of Black girls and boys just like me!
We don’t walk around causing trouble but we know who and whose we are, you know the type.
Is there no further contribution that I can make to ease this worldly pain?
Too many questions remain unanswered.
While there is no ETA on the true reparations of “America’s original sin”, I stand tall knowing that my Blackness is dope, she’s stunning, unparalleled, unforgettable, a vision crafted by God himself and she stands out where you would fit in.
So America, do me a favor…
Don’t ask me about my blackness or the black experience because the truth is that you don’t really want to hear it.
