My name is Beautiful. Black. Woman.
Even though my "friends" call me white.
They fail to acknowledge the fact that my mother's skin is a richly dark as the soil from which their ancestors picked cotton.
Saying the color i am gives me privilege.
Well how come I ain't Know?
Lets call up President Barack Obama and tell him there is some kinda mistake I shouldn't be poo.
I don't know anything about being black because of the color of my skin.
Watching my mother break her back in day and night.
Afraid to profess my fright about my plight.
Watching people deteriorate before my eyes
I bet you know nothing about that life.
If I ain't black and I sure as hell ain't white I must not be a color.
My Black Friend.
My name is the story of the dark past lived by "African Americans".
The mixing of blood by the unwelcome closeness of the man who beat me down to keep me down.
Our history a mystery of untold misery.
The slash of the whip cracking on their backs writing the true story in a forbidden language that has decayed over time.
My name is American.
I am smart encompassing the dreams of my ancestors and etching a new history on the same land in which my grandmother's grandmother laid her head, made her bed, and lied uncomfortably to protect her children from the harsh realities.
I am Hope personified.
My name is Rose
For I am that rose Tupac was talking about, that grew from concrete.
Oppressed by my own Kind......
Ness and still I manage to remain on my grind
Given time to find me.
My name is child, cousin, mother you see.
I am a woman nurturing this world un-con-ditionally.
My name is...........
Who cares what my name is?
I will define my name, my name will not define me.