burn the rulebook.
Burn the book
that says Black people can’t swim,
as if water ever checked skin
before deciding who could float.
Burn the page
that said Asians are only math and silence,
as if brilliance has one face
and emotion has none.
Burn the paragraph
that turned Hispanic into “illegal,”
as if borders were more sacred
than bloodlines.
Burn the footnote
that reduced Europeans to conquest,
as if history is only its worst moments
and never its art, its music, its revolutions.
Burn the chapter
that told white boys
they cannot cry,
that strength is measured
in suppression.
Burn the margins
where stereotypes live—
the jokes,
the backhanded compliments,
the “you’re not like the others.”
Burn the myth
that any race
is a monolith.
Burn the lie
that culture is costume.
Burn the quiet expectation
that some must be loud,
some must be submissive,
some must be dangerous,
some must be dominant.
Burn the idea
that identity is a box
instead of a spectrum.
Because rulebooks like that
don’t protect anyone.
They shrink us.
They tell Black kids the water isn’t theirs.
Tell Asian kids their feelings don’t matter.
Tell Hispanic kids their roots are suspect.
Tell white kids empathy is weakness.
Tell everyone
to perform.
And then we wonder
why we grow up
misunderstanding each other.
Burn the rulebook.
Not to erase history—
but to stop confusing stereotype
with truth.
And when the ashes settle,
leave only this:
No race
owes you a performance.
No culture
exists for your comfort.
And no child
should inherit
a limitation
they never chose.
Apr 10
Apr 10, 2026 at 10:43 AM UTC
burn the rulebook.
Burn the book
that says Black people can’t swim,
as if water ever checked skin
before deciding who could float.
Burn the page
that said Asians are only math and silence,
as if brilliance has one face
and emotion has none.
Burn the paragraph
that turned Hispanic into “illegal,”
as if borders were more sacred
than bloodlines.
Burn the footnote
that reduced Europeans to conquest,
as if history is only its worst moments
and never its art, its music, its revolutions.
Burn the chapter
that told white boys
they cannot cry,
that strength is measured
in suppression.
Burn the margins
where stereotypes live—
the jokes,
the backhanded compliments,
the “you’re not like the others.”
Burn the myth
that any race
is a monolith.
Burn the lie
that culture is costume.
Burn the quiet expectation
that some must be loud,
some must be submissive,
some must be dangerous,
some must be dominant.
Burn the idea
that identity is a box
instead of a spectrum.
Because rulebooks like that
don’t protect anyone.
They shrink us.
They tell Black kids the water isn’t theirs.
Tell Asian kids their feelings don’t matter.
Tell Hispanic kids their roots are suspect.
Tell white kids empathy is weakness.
Tell everyone
to perform.
And then we wonder
why we grow up
misunderstanding each other.
Burn the rulebook.
Not to erase history—
but to stop confusing stereotype
with truth.
And when the ashes settle,
leave only this:
No race
owes you a performance.
No culture
exists for your comfort.
And no child
should inherit
a limitation
they never chose.