My Sister is Fucking Black.

Sun, 10/02/2016 - 12:19 -- Woodsie

I had to teach my little sister today to not be ashamed of what she is.

Black.

I had to teach her that her curly hair is not "nappy" or "unkept".

Black.

I had to teach her that yes, she is black and yes, I am white.

I had to teach her that the difference in color does not make a difference in heart.

I had to fear for my 8 year old sister's life as she walked home from school today.

Black.

I have to fear for what her future holds as a black woman.

Will she be killed?

Beaten by police for looking at them the wrong way?

Will she be raped by men who see black women as filth?

Who will accept and love her outside of this family?

I cannot guard her her whole life.

I grew up white. I never understood why someone of color had to fear for the life daily.

Black.

A color that we relate to the void, the abyss, darkness, insanity.

But I find more beauty in her black hair, her black skin than I do in my own.

And now that she's growing and I see the world around me rear it's racist head, I have to teach her to be careful.

To comply.

To obey.

Because she's black.

Because the color of her fucking skin could very well get her shot in the wrong neighborhood.

Because the color of her fucking skin could prevent her from getting a "white person's job."

Because the kinkiness of her fucking hair is seen as unprofessional and nappy.

Because she is fucking black and that's not something to flaunt around here.

I have not personally experience oppression.

But the day she does, what will I say?

It's just how things are?

You will always have to live this way?

I have seen the stares she gets when she lets her hair fly free.

When she takes pride in her colored skin.

And I have seen the stares directed at me for holding her little hand throughout the grocery store.

For associating with someone so...colored.

Black.

She's fucking black.

And she is fucking beautiful.

And fucking wonderful.

And fucking loving.

And she doesn't understand racism yet.

But I know she will.

When that time comes, what will I say?

This poem is about: 
My family

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