My Prose Poetry on What Being Black Means to Me.
My blackness didn’t use to be a thought in my mind.
I’m African. I’m a woman.
But I’m also Black.
I become aware of blackness through others.
I become aware of notions of blackness.
The accent. The address. The hair. The clothes.
But I see blackness in it’s power.
The strength in blackness.
The perseverance in blackness.
The intelligence in blackness.
The wisdom in blackness.
But I can see blackness in its beauty.
The beautiful shades of it’s black beauty.
I understand blackness in Rosa, Martin, and Malcolm.
I’m transported back in time. And my God, I see it’s Boldness.
This fuels my spirit.
I flip pages and immerse myself in the stories.
Through Maya, Toni, through Ta-Nehisi.
I understand the frustration because of the otherness.
That pain from knowing your color incites doubt and fear.
That knowing can arouse bitterness or defeat.
But there is a triumph in blackness.
And I’m moved because of our hope.
Because of our fight.
I revel in our people.
I revel in the history of greatness from the skin I occupy.
How do you interpret what it means to be black?