How can we forget who died trying to make us equal
Somebody said it’s up to you to make it happen
But you don’t know what you would do laying in your crib
Would you make mud out of dirt floors in your mansion?

It wasn’t a made-up soul standing on the corner
Though you thought he was dead in his mother’s womb
She gave birth in a world that didn’t want him to live
But the song he once sang echoes in our own tomb

The voices of the past continue to haunt our thoughts
Yet the dead remain mute leaving us with our own cries
We read their words and wait for a stillborn prophecy’s birth
As the day ends the sun laughs through sacrificial eyes

The floor rises as each page is ripped from the book of life
Who watches while I decide between penance or desires?
What piper would play two songs when only one can be heard?
We await the answer hoping it's the one our heart requires

As a black guy,
No, no as a black man
I feel disheartened often
Not just by media or pressure at home
Or at the office
But by our chocolate to caramel skinned sisters at times
How?  Well allow me to describe this through rhyme.

I know we guys can be a//holes at times
But forever saying we aren't anything drills into our minds.
And if you wanna avoid a heartbreak then here's what I suggest,
Pray over it, then consider your options like an instagram or Snapchat post at best

And moving on if you complain about the selection among your ethnicity
Then get mad when we say "Enough of this" and date outside that group that doesn't make sense to me
Fact is there's a stigma around mixed relationships

If someone makes you happy, no matter what their skin color then why trip?  Let them be happy

Skin I choose to live in
Skin I lose when living
Skin we love we feel
Skin we hate we ****
Skin some old some young
Skin some sold some hung
Skin the largest ***** on our body
Skin the largest reason we're divided
Skin a pigment of our imagination
Skin a figment of our imagination
Skin your skin my skin feels the same
Skin my skin your skin tales of shame
Skin in it we mourn we cry
Skin in it we born we die
Skin that shields my soul
Skin that takes control
Skin we must look beyond
Skin just a phenomenon
Skin your skin my skin bruce alike
Skin your skin my skin same at night

To be brown is to
know racism in every shade -
internal,
or
external,
microaggression
or
aggression.

To be brown is
an inquisition,
every time you step foot outside –
“What are you?”
“What does your name mean?”
“Have you tried that restaurant?”
“Have you been back?
“What religion are you?”
“Say something in your language!”

To be brown is
the shame
of either
too much
or not enough,
that you try to
press down, ignore,
forget about -
don’t be so sensitive.

To be brown is
an investment,
the way you are always supposed to
rise and rise and rise,
have the opportunities of the west
and the values of the east,
marry a nice brown heterosexual,
go to graduate school,
have a good career,
earn more money than your parents did,
be safe and settled,
provide for your parents,
your parents,
who only pressure you
and push you
because they want you to be

happy.

To be brown is
diaspora,
the way your tongue
trips over the words of native languages
you never grew up speaking
because English was always taught
first
to generations before you,
the way you weren’t born with
any real community,
and even now
most of your friends
are white,
the way
you have to move in the world
hearing your name
mispronounced in every way imaginable,
the way you
scan the room
for any brown face
because you know
a brown person will
understand,
the way you realize
how often you are the only
brown body
in any space,
queer or straight,
the way you really are a
minority.

To be brown is
reclamation,
the way you learn to
find beauty in the brown and the hair
and the body type,
the way you learn to
let yourself feel Anger
at appropriation,
the way you learn to fight
for identity –
correct the mispronunciations
learn the language,
listen to the music,
cook the food,
wear the clothes,
go back to the country
learn the history,
do what you need to do
in your
imperfect
perfect
way,
****
what anyone says.

To be brown
is to be
enough.

I am the American Man.
I stand strong and tall,
Heads above the rest.
I shout my name and proclaim my greatness.

I am blind, yes.
I am deaf, yes.
But I’ll be ****** if I am made mute by progress—
Equality,
Change.

I revel in the status quo.
I thrive in inequity,
Sitting in my penthouse above the mindless throngs
I am privilege.

I do not see poverty.
I do not see race.
I do not see systemic oppression.

I am blind.

I do not hear the gunshots of the police.
I do not hear the protests of angry young men in the streets.
I do not hear their demands for rights guaranteed them under the Constitution.

I am deaf.

I speak out against the immigrants,
For they are rapists and lazy to boot.
I do not turn down those who would support me,
**** though they are, they are more like Kin to me.

I yell change while promising the status quo and I am invincible and strong and God-made and immortal and I am invincible and I am all that is right with this world.

My words fall on hungry ears,
Desperate for a turn away from change and Socialism and progress and politically correct speakers,
They gobble up my words like they are sides at Thanksgiving.

I am not mute.

I am—
The American Man.

Black and White.
Dark and Light.
We are forever dividing ourselves.

I divide.
You divide.
He, she, we,
Divide.

Divide between privilege and underprivilege.
Divide between have and have-not.
Divide between
Black
White
Latino
Asian
Indian
And many other things beside.

We know that color is a spectrum of light,
But when it comes to race,
We don’t see it like a spectrum,
But rather as a hierarchy.
A hierarchy from black to white.
Lines clearly separating them and all the colors in between.

It is a hierarchical scale.
Each color weighs a certain amount,
And the lines are clearly drawn.

You are or you aren’t.
You are not both.
And white weighs more heavily on the scale.
More privilege.
More money.
More power.

And we weigh each other,
Never realizing that, aside from our different wrapping papers,
Beneath each skin lies the same gift.
Lies the same spectrum of emotion.

Different though we may be,
We are one species under God.

And yes,
We have different stories,
Different backgrounds,
Different cultures,
Different wrapping papers.

These are indeed differences to be acknowledged.
We are not identical.
But much like America,
Why do we not stand as United Races,
One people under God?

Why do we not respect our different cultures and stories,
And use them to learn and better each other?
As America plays the strengths of each state into one cohesive country?

Let us become equal,
Together,
United.

Lesbian, bisexual, transgender, gay
What are they all only labels anyway?
Nowt of individuals do labels say,
Truth be told all they do is get in the way!
What is it with this need to put labels on?
What we really need is to see the person!
To judge others only by labels given
Is stupidity, hard to be forgiven.
So it is with gender, race, colour or creed;
And all other labels we just do not need.

You’re treading water, tantalizing your audience as they watch you sink deeper and deeper into the ocean.  They want you to fail as your vision blurs and your limbs shrivel with exhaustion.  You watch their pale faces with painted on smiles and take one last breath as you plunge into oblivion.  
But I don’t want you to go like that.  

I want to give you iridescent pearls so that when you take your last breath you feel beautiful and hold that breath in your heart until your posture becomes so confident that you finally know your worth.  I want you to believe that a white washed world isn't a “right” one but instead one that has become accepted by the same society that told you 245 years ago that you were property and your purpose in life was to serve those without melanin in their skin but steel in their hearts.  And the only difference between being branded by your slave owner is that now you pay $250 for that brand new pair of Jordans and participate in a sport where your leaders more often than not refuse to respect you as an individual but instead as a number followed by a k that can make them rich and you in pain.  

But you will succeed and no one will ever pierce your ebony skin because I promise you, I promise you that you are a speck of galaxy in world of pure Crayola.  You are brown, intelligent, and tall in a generation of ignorance of the fact that Michael Jackson wasn't trying to communicate to a certain race but instead a feeling but we associate everything with race.  When I am emotional I tend to not make sense but the thing is that YOU make sense so hold the microphone and speak to the world and one day instead of Martin Luther King being a memorial it will just be. To be.  

The only thing that scares me is that your night terrors tend to take place in front of mirrors where I cant protect you from shards of glass breaking your skin and tearing your self esteem apart.  And when you walk on graduation day and a white male hands you your diploma say thank you with your mouth and I made it with your eyes and then turn to your mom and hug her because in two years as you walk down the street in a dress suit and nice shoes instead of Jordans you realize that most of communication between the white male is non-verbal and all he's saying is, “get out” “you do NOT belong”.  They think it’s appropriate to act this way because the howl of your skin breeds intimidation and it is sadly accepted to just shoot
— you
not that it matters anyway

in this moment I want you to remember when you were seven years old and you rubbed white lotion into your knees thinking it would make your skin lighter your life lighter your problem lighter.  It didn’t.  Hold your head high for that seven year old now 27 year old brown child.
                                                                                            

And one day you will be happy because you are happy when you are loved.  So many in this world neglect you but love your culture.  Each year you complain about your routine becoming routine but go ahead and cry about your life because I know the zest in your tears reminds you of your Grandfathers cologne.  And I want you to start over, say hello to yourself.  Take a step back and bask in your beauty because that is you and you are close to perfect.  You can be magic.  

Touch the heart of the world and make it smile.  Marry a moonbeam and hear the stars sing and don’t let the monsters in your head ruin your dreams.  And the people who don’t want you to succeed you need to destroy them in the most beautiful way possible.  And when you leave them for something greater they will finally understand why storms are named after people.