So let me not give you the impression that I’m being mean or rude, I am a young black woman, I can’t be crude
I have the air of strictness, the attitude of profound sound, as a black woman I must do whatever it takes to be bound
They ask me what are you? Where have you come from? I want to tell them but my response is none
They say I talk white and that I’m full with poise, but excuse me, they say, can you stop making so much noise?
Oh my apologies I respond, for disturbing your peace, it must be the visible sight of my natural hair creased
I begin to wonder what being a black girl means, what it means to be black in these racist streets
I have one answer, and this is a fact, it’s always having the urge to watch your back
I write this poem and I begin to think, when will the attitude toward my race go extinct?
There is a long history that I won’t get into because everytime I do, I come off too pro-black, too rude, too true
There is a stigma like a cloud over my people that I cannot begin to explain, every time I think about it I want to cry in vain
The wound is too deep to discuss, action must be taken, there must me reparations, we must once again trust
I carry what my ancestors felt, what they did to fight, survive and flourish so they wouldn’t melt.