They look at me.

They shake their heads and tap their pens,

and say I've come to the wrong class again.

Why is she here? She's not in I.B.

She can't keep up, she's not A.P.

That little black girl actually thinks

she can pass this class with more than a D.

But they don't know.

They don't know my brain, or that my GPA

is a 4.7. Yes, a weighted A.

She's black, not smart. They hit me with that low blow.

You talk about college? She'll never go.

That ignorant little troublemaker won't

have anything except for skin to show....

Troublemaker- they call me that. So, I wanna say this.

It's not me causing the class problems, Miss.

They want to blame the dark skin, so your eyes go past

the big guy pinning a kid in a corner for cash.

Or the girls making the redhead into an outcast,

pointing and laughing at her because her clothes clash...

and me, just praying for class to end fast,

to get away from kids calling me n***** and black trash......

So I say, teacher, please open your eyes. My skin is not what's paramount.

Your students are suffering. Trying to cope. Don't ignore their cries. You hear their shouts.

You see the struggle everyday, as we grow rich in fear and doubt.

You let it happen, but you have the power to intervene.... Just help us out.