He Said

 He said.
 Your voice flows beautifully 
 like the deep, blue sea.
 I am captivated by the tone of your voice,
 and the grammatical way of your
 language truly inspires me.
 You clearly, 
 and beautifully 
 speak the Queen’s English you see.
  
 His eyes glaze admiringly over the length of my body
 and gently, 
 he strokes my mocha dark skin.
 His voice is soft and calming, and
 in barely a whisper, 
 with a face full of smiles, he says,
 you really are, the whitest black girl, that I’ve ever met. 
  
 He said.
 You really don’t get your urban slang,
 you really are not street,
 where is bro, fam, shook, and salty,
 in those daily words you speak?
 Do you even get street talk?
 Do you even understand?
  
 The slits of his eyes lengthened.
 His pupils the size of saucers.
 The first entrée was served before me, 
 a large dish of
 awe and amusement, 
 laid bare on an empty plate.
 Then,
 as delicately as can be, 
 he strokes my mocha dark skin.
 His voice is soft and calming, and
 in barely a whisper, 
 with a face full of smiles, he says,
 you really are, the whitest black girl, that I’ve ever met. 
  
 He said.
 It was really great meeting your friends last night,
 their quirky ways, 
 their cheeky banter,
 their enticing personalities.
 Everything about them was, 
 just an awesome treat.
 They’re not what I expected though, he said suddenly.
 Sure, I expected a mix of personalities yes,
 But, what I thought I’d see,
 was an enthralling mix of attitude and street.
 A mix of braids and anger, 
 quick wit and a sharp tongue
 that surely would last, 
 all the night long.
 So, imagine my surprise when,
 I saw a mix of white faces, 
 with only a few brown, 
 dotted around,
 staring back at me,
 with personalities, 
 simply, 
 just like yours.
  
 Where were the black faces with
 braids and weaves and locs?
 Where were the African and Caribbean twangs 
 in the voices as they speak?
 Why were you not in a pack?
 Do you even mix with your own people? 
 Are you sure, 
 you’re really even black?
  
 A smile played at his lips.
 His eyes twinkled in the sun.
 He reached out, 
 and,
 as delicately as can be, 
 he strokes my mocha dark skin.
 His voice is soft and calming, and
 in barely a whisper, 
 with a face full of smiles, he says,
 you really are, the whitest black girl, that I’ve ever met. 
  
 The anger boils inside me.
 The frustration starts to rise, 
 from the pit of my stomach, I feel it,
 until I taste it in my mouth.
 The words come tumbling out of my mouth then,
 before my hand has a chance to clasp it.
 What makes you think you can tell me,
 what makes a black person really black?
 Am I not living up to the stereotype
 that you have created in your mind?
 What makes you think you can tar us,
 with your one, racist brush?
  
 Your ignorance is astounding.
 Your lack of understanding apparent.
 You eagerly tell your friends. Your family. 
 Even those annoying colleagues of yours, 
 that you say you just can’t stand.
 You almost scream in their faces,
 you almost beg to be heard,
 you speak in your sternest voice and scream,
 racism is just not in me.
 racism makes me SICK!
 I have this one girl, who I’m really into,
 and she’s black, don’t you know it!
  
 But what you just don’t understand,
 what you simply fail to see,
 are those words, 
 that you utter every day,
 those thoughts of yours, 
 that you just can’t get rid of,
 is frankly,
 ignorance at its very best.
  
 Let me tell you this last thing,
 so, there is truly no confusion, 
 that ignorance that I talked about,
 is racism at its peak. 

Published by Iliana Ike

Passionate creative who likes to explore different art forms for expression, awareness and healing

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