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When I was a little girl, people would tell me how pretty I was.
That my eye lashes were so long and curly, My ears and nose were so small,
My hair was so thick and long, and if it wasn't for me being so dark...
I would be perfect. I wish I could know how my mother felt
when people would talk about her only child with so much brown paper bag racism
stuck in between their teeth that they forgot they were trying to pick
me out a compliment. I imagine it's the same feelings I have when
I hear Lil' Wayne tell me that beautiful black woman
would look better red or Kevin Hart saying that
dark skinned woman are not needed in our community or
Kanye West telling me that if it wasn't for mixed chicks and
Latino women then Hip Hop would surely be dead.
But I still find myself laughing, can't stop the giggles because I'm afraid
they may turn into oil spills. Cause dark girls cry oil right?
I can't seem to peel the sadness off my mother's face
when people are too dumb to realize that telling someone their daughter is so pretty to be
so dark is an insult. Can't seem to find the reason why we share
the same face but not the same skin completion? Some summers she would tan long enough so
people could see the resemblance. My mother feels like her skin is blackface
in reverse. Like how can she cover up ignorance when it's
her own kind that put it there in the first place?
What jig would she have to do today to divert your attention to the confused child in the
corner, trying to remember that she spells her name T.O.V.A and not D.A.R.K.Y?
Hated the way people looked at her as if she was the
People just knew that I was adopted because how could something so perfect make
me. She told me the first time they placed me
in her arms, she didn't see light or dark or black or red,
but she saw love and life. That for the first time her body served its
true purpose, like she gave something to the world that
was worth remembering. Even if she was too black for them to ever
make her feel pretty. So she told me that if they won't let you
be pretty, then you be breathtaking,
Tell them your were a fireworks in my belly that I could not wait to see, that your light
was too bright to fit in a skin color. you be what Angels hope to see when they die
and come to earth, When they try to call you black as the night
You tell them without you, stars would have nothing to shine for
Tell them you are what they fall for. When clouds get dark and heavy they produce
rain. Call yourself rain. Call yourself a cycle
worth repeating. Call yourself pretty. Cause perfection was never your destination
but your starting point and I dare anybody else to tell you different.