A LETTER: From Home
We had no idea of knowing that those were the innocent days that we would never see again. A time in the hearts of hopeful children when race really did not matter.
We had no idea of knowing that those were the innocent days that we would never see again. A time in the hearts of hopeful children when race really did not matter.
when a white woman tells me she is into black guys, I consider it the most racist thing she could ever say to me. It is not a compliment. It is as stereotypical as watermelon and fried chicken, as if all black guys are the same just because of the color of their skin.
I awake to see my blackened face in the mirror and ask myself what shall we wear today? a touch of white? or perhaps half tone, or would it be impolite to be black to the bone and chance losing my life simply walking home…
Our emergence into cultural prominence is being met by a resurgence of the old guard who spat upon and cursed my father. and they have filled the airwaves with rhetoric I only heard my elders speak of. And from their positions of power and influence, which they quietly maintained their bigotry over the years, they are now feeling free to, once again, speak. Are we to be echoes of a different shade?