Everyone always mentions the microaggression,
those fetishes and strange obsessions,
but my first encounter wasn’t subtle.
See, the harsh consonants beat the air from my lungs,
the words hung heavy in my little 8-year-old mind,
as I was pushed aside at lunch
and told ‘you can’t sit here…because you’re black’.
And my little tabula rasa mind was struggling to decide and codify,
as you tried to deny my presence.
9-year-old me was greeted with golliwogs at a friend’s party.
2, 4, 6, 8 sat side by side staring down at me from the stairs.
‘They’re just collector’s items’, the mother said,
and she watched my Black eyes flicker at the sound of her white lies.
Knots formed in my stomach.
At 10, a friend and I begged our teacher to celebrate Black History Month.
We had fried chicken, bakes and plantain,
and when tasting our food, they got a taste of our culture,
and like colonisers what they liked they kept.
Vultures coming for the culture, but never the pain,
wanting our style, but not our delayed start to the game.
So, in 2020 I know I’ll still have to ask workplaces to celebrate Black History again,
I think my children probably will too.
So, for me, it was blatant, blunt, obvious.
But then came the microaggressions,
see, all the overt stuff stops,
or maybe you just get used to it,
but you never stop feeling it.
And suddenly racism came packaged in little parcels and tied with ribbons.
You know those boomerang compliments like:
‘you’re pretty for a black girl’ or ‘you look like you can sing’,
and even, ‘your hair doesn’t feel very niggerish’,
that one made me wince.
And whilst their fingers interlocked through my locks, I filled with dread.
For once annoyed that they didn’t ask that question,
that I’ve heard far too many times,
that they didn’t ask my consent,
didn’t ask my permission,
before invading my hair, my safe spaces and home.
Every day, I wake up black and every night I go to sleep black.
And yet, on Monday I’m told I ‘sound white’,
but on Tuesday I ‘sound black’ again.
Then on Wednesday, I’m told to ‘stop acting black’,
but on Thursday, you think I need to ‘stop acting white’.
And every damn Friday I’m interrogated with ‘where are you really from?’
And on Saturday, your eyes pierce mine as you interrupt with ‘no I said REALLY from?’
And on Sunday’s,
on Sunday’s,
on Sunday’s I sigh,
I cry,
I grieve,
I struggle to breathe.