Black Girl

T Miller told me I could cum and birth a revolution simultaneously. 

So watch as I orgasm on stage delivering children of change, unlocking this cage of oppression.

Let the death of ancestors be lessons we learn from.  

It’s our turn to hum

chant

dance

freedom.

I am I black girl

Raised in a white world because my mother didn’t think being black was enough.

When your skin is dark and your hair is course it’s better to be well spoken.

My cousins grew up on the other side of the tracks and although we share the same blood I always felt different.

Them Karl Kanai, Tims, and Biggy

Me Jincos, vans and Simple Plan  

Like the Montessori school my mother fought to get me in, somehow lightened the tone of my skin.

I’ve always been proud of my education even when my cousins used it as a way to break me down.

Teased me for the way I pronounce every syllable.

Mocked me cuz when I walked my booty failed to jiggle

Taught me to throw them hands by playin monkey in the middle

But little did I know those long weekends at auntie’s house would strengthen my backbone

Create a dynamic inside me all its own.

I speak in complete sentences and don’t often use broken English.

I have a small waste and not much shape to my fully developed body.

My cocoa complexion the envy of their porcelain reflections

I trace my lineage back to my great grandmother on my mother’s side.

She calls me Punky, prefers to live alone.

As the sun glistens off the silver speckles in her hair, I am reminded that she is my last connection to roots of my family tree.

The history of our people ripped away and replaced with the false idol of a white God.

They taught us to fear what they did not understand.

Took us from our land and forced our babies to be birthed and raised in an environment with no culture of their own.

Little black children grew up never being told of the royalty they derive from.

Our ancestors were Kings and Queens but they won’t teach you that in American history.

I call Alaska my home

White washed by the snow and my mother’s dream to raise me outside of the ghetto.

My best friends were suburban white kids 

Is that what you call “black privilege”?

Lately, I’ve become ashamed of this, crossed oceans to find what my namesake is. 

Even then, living on these beautiful Hawaiian Islands no more life in the drift of the trade winds finally deciding to let my feet sink into to soil. 

As my grandmother’s hair coils down my shoulders every year I grow older I find myself wanting to plant roots, water my seed.  

I am emerging.

Birthing the most divine version. 

I am a black girl

Claiming my place in this world

I refuse to be ashamed, hide in the shadows or straighten my curls.

I rarely wear make-up, keep my hair natural, don’t know what the actual fuck I am doing but still I be doin’ it.

In a life or death hunt for my lineage.

Frantically combing my mother’s mind to find the truth she left behind.

Lost memories from another lifetime,

Hidden traces in her bloodline.

This is not a facade

The blood running through my veins descends from the Queen of all Queens and God of all Gods.

I am a black girl

 

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