I ain’t black,

that’s what they say.

So, I went and looked in the mirror

and this is what it showed me:

chocolate skin,

kinky hair,

full lips,

flat nose,

big breast,

big butt,

thick thighs,

but I ain’t black.

I ain’t black,

they say,

because I’m a nerd,

I like learning,

I speak proper sometimes,

I know big words,

and I listen to music

commonly referred to as

white music.

I ain’t black,

they keep telling me this,

because I watch nerdy movies,

because I like Star Trek,

because I like to write

stories about vampires,

and because I don’t spend

my whole check on expensive

name brand clothes.

They tell me,

being black is listening to rap,

not learning about other people

and races,

and not being a black woman

and having a fascination

with white men.

They tell me that

wearing clothes with

a racist designer’s branding

on me is being black.

They tell me that all

this misogynistic rap

is part of being black,

that I should accept

a man calling me a bitch,

a hoe, a slut,

that I should just turn my

ass to the camera and

shake it for some rich baller

who ain’t even concerned about my face

let alone my mind.

When they say I’m not black,

I say, my ancestors didn’t fight for this,

slaves didn’t die for this,

blacks didn’t march for this,

for us to degrade ourselves

for record contracts,

for the chance to be rich,

for us to wage drug wars

in the streets,

for us to close our minds

to the world and society,

for us to purposely isolate

ourselves

and ultimately hurt ourselves.

Black people died

so we could go to school,

so how dare you

treat education like a game?

So how dare you judge me

because I wish to be enlightened?

By your standards I’m not black,

but guess what?

Your standards don’t mean jack.