When I told my mom I was attracted to white guys,
I had to have been about sixteen. She told me:
how could I ever like someone who will never understand my struggles
or the struggles my ancestors have gone through.
That is when I thought to myself,
I will never truly know what struggles my ancestors went through.
Growing up in a predominately white suburban area,
after you leave middle school,
African American history is taught in your home,
repeated on the streets and then looked over in the news.
I watch as a black girl walks the halls
and the white girls ask if they can touch her curls,
because wearing your natural hair is no longer a style
but yet more of a statement.
There is competition between Africans and Africans
because one ethnic group can cook better than another
or if you're from Ethiopia then your skin looks better?
Oh and there is no longer just black but now there is:
light skins, brown, and chocolate?
I am almost possible, with time,
we have lost sight of what our struggle is, or what it was.
Confusion weighs heavily on my mind
considering how can we possibly lose track
when we are watching our black brothers' lives
being taken by someone who is put in charge to save it.
We are too busy creating new irrelevancies to mask our problems.
So while my mom is worrying about my taste in boys
and if they will ever know our struggle,
I worry if my own brothers and sisters know it themselves.
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I will be attending Hampton University to major in broadcasting journalism and communications. I was born in Baton Rouge, LA, and was raised by my single mother in Texas with my brother.