The instructor said,
Go home and think
About a time in your life.
A time you vividly remember, something personal—
Something relatable.
I find that very difficult.
I am twenty, of color, born in California.
I am half African-American, one-fourth of Italian and one-fourth of Native American.
My experience as a child was different than as an adult due to my heritage.
My father was in the military, diversity was not foreign or irrelative.
The day I moved to Tennessee was when the diversity became more of solidarity.
The children were still enforced with the South’s segregation laws and slave mentalities,
Some questioned my father’s abilities while sympathizing with my mother’s struggles in life.
How could they know? How would they ever know? Me—them—us?
Constant murmurs of “She thinks she better,” or “She got good hair,”
The un-correspondence of my parent’s skin color
Was a parallel to my understanding of these abstract ideals.
My fair skin is yet too light for you but still too dark for you
But I still try to compromise my abilities and knowledge for your gratitude
And still get nowhere? How?
Will I or should I? My outer appearance reveals the struggle of my ancestors
Black and white.
Not relying on the government or non-believers for help.
Struggle does not portray a color.
Will my experience as a human still be relatable?
Can I still depict a message?
I favor musicians with concentrations in blues, rock and hip hop, but not because of my skin.
It is who I am, Kiesha.
They expect you to be either white or black,
This or that, her or she, him or he, them.
But never acknowledging the shades of gray,
Does the term “melting pot” mean anything to you?
Human is my race, it distinctively separates me from insects and reptiles,
Isn’t that what is most important?
Does the fact that I have a black mother mean I love fried chicken and cornbread?
Or the fact that my father is white means I love to hike mountains and climb trees?
No.
It could be because that is what I am, my color non-existent.
I am reminded of how I look everyday when I wake up,
A girl with a mother, black, and a father, white, but most importantly an American.
This is my page for English B (Part II).
