Tribute: For Trayvon Martin

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 I am not Trayvon Martin....

 

but I know what it feels like to wear my

favorite hoodie that's a little too dark for

those who were taught to fear darker things

 

like dark skin that's only good enough to border

the outskirts of picture-perfect privilege

 

or dark hair that curls into itself late at night

after a long day of curious hands wanting to touch it

 

or eyes darker than the shadows that follow

closely while I shop at my favorite corner store.

 

I am a woman who has been stalked by the

cars of men who thirsted for the disadvantages

of my youthfulness; I am a Black woman who

was taught (by a Black woman) to never mind

the suspicions that gathered in a stranger's mind

and seared from the tongue.

 

I remember walking in the rain. This turned

the heads of white strangers who weren't used to

seeing Black people walk in the rain. It seems

like Black people, hoodies, and rain mix just as well

as "nappy" hair and rain mix.

Poetry Slam: 

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