Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Qweyku Jan 2018
I wonder if pictured opinion is found
in the sight of the visually impaired?
& if they might be inclined to share
views meaning behind Beauty Is Blind?

Have they too been sold a melanated lie?
That hue-man shades of brown
ought to be blackened with a frown?
& whitewashed with a lighter sense
of melanted pride?

I ponder,
eyes closed.

Do minds,
deeper see, outside?

**© Qwey.ku
On Jan 14, 2018, an ABC online article under the heading: 'UK party suspends leader's girlfriend over Markle remarks' ABC reported on a story being carried by several UK publications discussing private texts sent by UK model;
Jo Marney, girlfriend of the suspended UKIP party leader.
Where she referred to so called 'Black people' as "****" adding other disparaging comment and opinion on the intellect and ethnicity of British Royal Prince Harry's fiance Meghan Markle.
aurora kastanias Oct 2017
Infancy talked to me various languages, switching
Tonalities for different melodies, to be learnt.
Naturally acquiring the discernment, recognising
Faces and voices to choose applicable native tongues.

English with my father, whose name echoed as Plato,
Iranian with my mother, Italian with my siblings, French
With school teachers, Greek on summer holidays.

Growing up my hair and accents, led to the inevitable
Repetitive question, ‘Where are you from?’
Timidly answered as it was hard to comprehend, until I set
Myself to do so untiringly drafting precious family trees.

Investigations interrogating relatives to exhaustion,
Ignited my pride for every single drop of blood,
Composing me and drawing borders
On geographical maps delineating my essence.

My story was one of many, they labelled me a multi-ethnic,

For my daddy’s naissance in Accra from a mulatto beauty
Queen, daughter of a British doctor and his Ghanaian lady friend.
For her husband, his Hellenic pater, son of Chios, born in Sudan.

For my mummy’s naissance in Tehran from a noble
Banker, progeny of the Qajar dynasty originally Turkic,
And his pure blood Persian wife.

My parents met in England where they studied only
To marry and move to pre-revolutionary Iran. I was born
In Rome where they fled, when insurrections began.

Now if someone asks I forcefully respond,
“From planet Earth. A terrestrial little sphere at the heart
Of its star system, on the edge of its galaxy lost
Somewhere in space in the maze of the Universe.

My story is one of many, I labelled us humans.
Amanda S Oct 2017
i come from whispers of Venezuelan lullabies
y las stories que viene del corazon de mi mama.
the annual celebracion de Corpus Christi is a
constant reminder de la amarilla, azul, y sangre roja
coursing through my veins.
when i was younger,
yo baile durante horas con mi papa
and sung at the top of my lungs
until the last bit of oxygen
en mi pulmones deteriorated.
mi cultura is the incarnation of who i am,
it inhabits every cell en mi cuerpo,
and never will i ever consider
disintegrating the ashes on which mis ancestros
were founded upon.
it's the embodiment of my children, and their children;
it's mi vida y mi alma,
and no one could ever tear down the walls
of this Venezuelan throne.
to those who've experienced discrimination and segregation toward their ethnicity; to those who've always seemed encaged in their identity; to those who never thought they'd ever experience freedom - don't let anyone ever tell you to erase your culture. it is the blood running through your veins, it's the air in which you breathe - allow yourselves to be free in your own skin. embrace who you are because, in the end, it's all you have.
Nicole S Aug 2017
Take a look at me.

Wonder how I got here.

No, really- wonder,
don't assume,
because maybe that's humanity's
biggest problem.
Everybody thinks they're smart enough
to tell the story just by looking at its cover.

I am white. I am so white it's painful,
so pale I know the frustration
of never having found a foundation
in my color,
of having to settle,
of being too much of an inconvenience
to make a shade for.
But there is privilege in this;
there is no denying that,
none whatsoever,
and please know:  I am not denying anything.  
I can't.  It is true.
My privilege is skin deep,
bone deep,
inescapable and ever evident,
but it did not get me here today.
Not entirely.

Because no matter how white I am,
my soul has never fit in.
It must be a motley of colors.
I am so white,
yet I'm not white enough-
eating alone and wearing the wrong clothes,
unable to read music
because we couldn't afford piano lessons,
and now that we have the money for birthday parties
no one will ever come.

I am ten shades less tan
than the preferred caucasian
and they will never, ever let me forget it.

I am judged the moment someone sees my family
because suddenly, the puzzle pieces must fit-
that's why she's successful,
she's a rich white girl-
except fortunate parents doesn't automatically
mean you get everything,
doesn't mean I didn't do chores,
doesn't ever mean I got paid for A's
or that college help was guaranteed.

I had to earn it.  
A's were expected, chores a duty,
allowances non-existent.
I fought for my success and only then
was I promised assistance
to get through college without drowning in bills,
yet even then
I still had six figures to consider
and weeks' worth of scholarship papers
just to make it out with anything to my name.
Privilege was present,
but privilege was not the reason
I won enough scholarships
to make it through.
I worked.
(It is possible for a white woman to work,
as much as I've heard that it isn't.)

My skin won't tell you that I've suffered,
quite the opposite.
My skin won't admit the times
that I pulled at it, hated it,
the days I wanted to make my pallor permanent
and the day gooseflesh trembled
beneath a blade.
It can't tell you about the tears
or the panic attacks
or the abandonment or depression or inexplicable grief
for joy I never knew,
belonging I never experienced,
and privilege that could not protect me from assault
or hatred,
because most of you wouldn't be listening anyway.

I promise,
there are reasons for my self-loathing.

But you won't know it,
won't even realize it exists as a subplot,
if you refuse to open my book
and learn my story
because my cover is white.

You won't realize that
I am scared to let my friends meet my family.
You won't know I've lost friends after they have.

You won't know that I care,
that I'm angry too,
so furious my teeth are cracking
but I can't say a word.
I am not supposed to.
I have been scolded for it.

Everyone says
not to judge a book by its cover,
yet they still do,
tossing novels aside every day
because their binding is displeasing.
Maybe some of the authors before me
wrote horrible stories,
but you stand to discover an unexpected favorite
if you can give others a chance.

And you stand to find a fellow motleyed soul
by opening that shiny new book you can't trust,
don't want to trust,
and testing the waters of the first delicate page.
I was terrified to post this; my friend finally talked me into it. She said people needed to hear it, that I needed to say it. Before anyone assumes, she is not white.

Society is never going to get anywhere if we don't listen to each other.
Knit Personality Jul 2017
There once was a boy bear named Eddie
Who knocked up a girl bear named Betty:
   They had a big litter
   Of cubs that would titter
And totter, half Polar, half Teddy.

Bethany G Blicq Dec 2016
The best people

don't come from

anywhere in particular.

There is one

inside each soul;

do we ever

truly measure up?

Not to ourselves;

our own ideal;

maybe to another.
Written in 2016.
Bethany G. Blicq
madameber Nov 2016
you said i was exotic,
and i said ooo
what do you mean?, like
exotic like a fruit?, like
i don’t know what tropics
you think i came from, was
imported from, but you read
my skin like the label
on a flavour of coca-cola
you had never been
offered before and i
was refreshing, and
different. and you liked
the way my coke-bottle
curves felt beneath your
fingertips, said you’d never
tasted caramel
like me before,
you said i was exotic.
like i was a work
of west african art,
even though my mother’s
from the east, like
i was from a storybook like
1001 african nights, like,
you saw my cover and you were
hooked, never did think to
look beneath the jacket,
just wanted stories like the
ones scheherazade sold,
i was your sheba
and you my solomon.
we rode lions across
the sands, your kiss
was salt on my lips,
i needed to quench
my thirst and you offered
me the brand new flavour
of coca-cola.

you said i was exotic,
like a pretty foreign thing,
like just some thing,
some mail-order thing,
special delivery
just for you,
a flavour of coca-cola that you
had never tasted before.
it's not a compliment
Racism is the belief
that humankind is not
united in species but
divided by ethnic heritage

that race, a superstitious
social construct used
to Other and oppress,
is more real than genetics

   this world teaches
   identification with boxes
   in its busy ignorance

More pernicious yet
is this mysterious whiteness
that infects all so-called races

   such that light-skinned Spaniards
   would look down on dark-skinned gauchos

      fair-skinned Chinese nobles
      disdained the tan-skinned herders

         and African-Americans are treated differently
         by police and their own communities
         if they have lighter skin

            Meanwhile, for so-called whites
            it has become quaint
                   to consider the Irish black

               and the fashion is now
               to include whomever is drafted

                  in the army of the privileged.

Herein lies the key:

rich and powerful whites
convinced poor and disempowered whites
that they were on the same side

and nobody noticed it was *******

so we call it the land of the free

but we're enslaved
by colorism
Inspired by this article.

If anyone is curious, I'm multi-ethnic.
Next page