My blackness

 

My blackness is not up for discussion. It is not gonna be dissected by you or your friends. Do not tell me the way that act or present myself is in any way related to the color of my skin. You will not win me over by reciting every lyric to every Biggie or Tupac song. Do not ask me about the state of my hair or do not attempt to touch me or my hair when I clearly don’t know you. Do not presume to know my identity or who I relate to; I am a confident woman of colour, so I’m already a walking oxymoron for some. Do not tell me that racism does not exist or that black people are too sensitive nowadays. Until you know how it feels to be judged simply by the color of your skin before you’ve even uttered one word, don’t talk to me about understanding what I’m going through. And if you’re gonna tell me that you have black friends or you’ve date black girls before, then we don’t even need to speak, because I am not the black girl for you. Do not assume that just because I am educated and well-spoken that I am not black enough. When you ask me where I’m from and I tell you Montreal, do not give me that fucking confused look. I was born and raised here by immigrants who chose to live and raise kids here. Do not tell me that I’m different from the other black people who’ve meant, because guess what jackass, we are all different, just like white people are all different. But most importantly, know that there is nothing that you can do to make love my blackness any less. I love mine and maybe you should love yours…

 

 

 

*Illustration by Brad Amorosino

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