I never knew until the third year of school
What the difference was
between my skin
and the girl who sat in front of me
until the day
her young mouth spoke words of hatred
her mom said we couldn’t be friends
all because I was black
I didn’t understand what it meant
because I
wasn’t the shade of the crayola crayons
that outlined my pictures
So I sat in the class during recess
trying to figure out
why this was my fault
my small hands stroked through
the coarse strands of hair
and I started to notice the difference
while mine was nappy, curly, and dark
hers was soft, straight, and light
My nose was wider
while hers pointed up
and my skin?
mine was darker
a tan color
that stayed with me all winter
Symbolizing years of ancestors slavery
mixing with the forbidden love
and gradually moving in the world
but hers was pale
With less pigmentation
the color of masters
Who took a whip
To darkened backs
and the only time she might’ve been somewhat near my shade
was in the summer
because she’d play outside
and God would allow the sun
to kiss her skin
with childhood happiness
I always wondered why
God never let happiness kiss me

My mind filled like a cup with knowledge
by the time middle school
greeted me with fearful arms
By then I was 12
with a straightener that hid my kinky curls,
make up that made my skin seem lighter
But I still knew the difference
between the pale skin
that was my best friends
and the brown skin my father gave me
that I shamefully caked
Make up upon
When my first crush came
it felt just like my third year of school again
soft hair and a pointed up nose
pale skin and freckles
that grazed him like stars
He could still tell I wasn’t
This so called "white"
and when I told him
the secret that was buried
deep inside of me
He told me words that are still carved into my rib cage
He spoke words of hatred
Just like my old friend
“I don’t date black girls”
My childish voice tried to explain to him
something that I truly believed
That I just wasn’t black
because I would look around the room
and see the other girls
My hair wasn’t like theirs
neither was my nose
and even my skin
But his statement stood with him
and my confusion was with me again
So I sat in class during break
running my fingers through
my false straight hair
trying to figure out where I belonged
I still couldn’t put a finger on it

Years passed, along with schools
Finally approaching the supposed to be
“Best 4 years of your life”
I was smarter unlike
the middle school days
and third year of school
not only
because the teachers finally taught me
y=mx+b
but because I finally learned
that my race was not a barrier
like the Hoover Dam
blocking me from everything
My curly hair wasn’t a bad thing
and it wasn’t my fault for
Having this darker skin
And being a label
Under the race black
Thats right
I can finally admit it
I am black
So to the girl
whose mother said we couldn’t be friends
my hands would still care for you
if you were in need
and my lips would part
to speak words of encouragement
if you truly needed it
My voice box was not given to bash you
and my heart was not constructed
by an upper power to show hate
because I see
what she truly loathed now
something I didn’t understand
as a little one
your mother didn’t hate the color of my skin
but the stupidity of some
and she might even still be stuck
in ignorant days
full of racial masters and servants
I do want her to know
that my father is an educated man
and I live with the sense my mother
pushed in my brain that year
I continue to carry it with me
more now
but I truly needed it when my heartbroke
because the boy that told me he didn’t date black girls
My heart no longer craves for his attention
and my mind doesn’t question
how a girl of different color affects our emotions
its okay because now
God kisses me
with the happiness I deserved
and lets me grasp the place
where I truly belonged