WHAT KIND?

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“The blacker the berry, The sweeter the juice”, Right? Remember that the next time I accidentally brush past you at the mall. My darkness will not dye you.   This melanin-soaked cloak is to race What black leather pants are t...

“The blacker the berry,

The sweeter the juice”,

Right?

Remember that the next time

I accidentally brush past you at the mall.

My darkness will not dye you.

 

This melanin-soaked cloak is to race

What black leather pants are to fashion;

Something to walk in proudly in public,

And be scornful of behind closed doors.

Because black attracts heat, and makes you uncomfortable,

Yet everyday with your head up high

Defies expectations.

 

Sometimes I switch it up

And cover up the melanin coat with leather pants.

“What kind of Black woman looks so proud?

Humble yourself!”

An angry street vendor scolded me one afternoon.

I asked her,

“Has history not humbled us enough?”

 

I used to sort my jelly babies

By colour,

In part to assert

My illusive position as a Black

Not-quite-jelly baby myself.

I’ve since matured into

More of a wine gum,

Or rather a raisin in the rum.

 

This not-quite-a-berry is out of juice, though.

I never understood the concept of raisins

(Also known as shrivelled up grapes)

Until my own spirit resembled one –

Still palatable, yet somewhat disgusting.

 

What kind of woman am I?

The tired kind –

The everyday kind.

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