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,

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  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.