Identity

Standard

If I had a dollar for every time I’ve been asked “so what are you?” I’d gladly pay the explanation I apparently owe for my appearance in your curiosity. I am exactly half not white enough, half not dark enough to get shot in the back IF I talk right. Luckily my vocabulary delivers license and insurance with the calm assurance of a freed slave with papers. A little known advantage of the modern educated high yellow loudmouthed bitch is I can shape shift imagine how fast a scarf and a flick of the wrist can  turn fashionable artist into suspicious terrorist. Sometimes I do that just to f@ck with people. Obviously I’m mixed with feelings of guilt in knowing that if I don’t tell you I’m black you won’t know and that could be beneficial somehow? My Grandparents adamantly insisted I pass like their cousins. My mom says dear you’re more white than anything else. Pops says I’m blacker than I think. What I am made of is middle passage pow wow and revolution. The color of blue blood walking on Mississippi clay through a trail of tears with a crown. The shade of an orchestra playing James Brown for ballerinas doing a rain dance. What I am is gerwurtzaminer etufee gumbo haggis pints of ale iboga fry bread and danjou. I am a veritable global smorgasbord of world traveling barrier breaking screwing and surviving. I owe no explanation for my appearances come with no labels to categorize me into an imaginary box of things I am or am not based on the skin color of my book cover for my rainbow hued encyclopedia soul of ancient roots I am just human.
Like you.

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