Hope of the Slave by Brittany A.

I have been battered and they have beaten me to my wits end.

I have rebelled and found myself to my knees with bruises deep as my souls wounds.

With my remaining pride I’ve walked the lands of the white man.

I have done his bidding and he has forsaken me as a n***a.

I can read if I was permitted too, but I hide my words for fear that I might be hanged for them.

My skin burns with the heat of the sun against my black tarred skin, while I break my bones with his labor.

Still I fight for my rights by night, and keep my mouth shut for the day.

I work for cents while I watch him swindle his money about.

My children they work as young as his babies that I am forced to care for.

Yet I am rendered the useless, dirty, no good n***a, and he the promising, working white pride of the world.

I died that night for speaking my mind, and here I linger watching what is my legacy.

They walk about with pants so low that wind freely passes within the cheeks.

They wear their curves for attention, instead of womanhood.

They word words as if they were not words at all.

They have remained beneath, in a world where it was possible for them to rise. 

But most importantly, they have now deemed the white man’s word n***a as that of pride and a label.

This is what I have died for. 

This is what I was owned for.

This is what I was slaved for.

A people who are no longer a people…just n****s.

The hope of the slave has fallen, but I pray there is hope as I just linger. 

Rise.

I Am Not That…Black by Brittany A.

I am not that black…though I am African American.

I am mixed, but profoundly an African American woman.

What you see when you look at me:

A loud, ghetto, weave wearing…just another black person in the neighborhood.

Interesting how the stereotype flows.

My hair does not flow in the wind…but it is as real as a white or hispanic woman.

It may curl with the rain, but I wear it gracefully in its mess.

My skin may not be flawless, but I have never been more proud to wear it.

My ass may not be like Jlo or Beyonce, or any other women who flaunts their’s on the internet…but my curves glide along my waist as I walk, and I work what is mine.

I may not wear makeup or change my hair each day…but what you see is what you get either way. 

I hide behind no masks, and my flaws are who I am.

I am loud, but my mouth remains sealed, for a woman should be seen not heard, and she should be real.

My words I speak cast tattoos upon the skin.

I am not that black…I am not a stereotype.

I am just another woman…in society.

I will never compete with another woman, because there will only be one me. 

There is the preferred woman, and I wish to just be me.

I walk the streets to what I am compared too…oh how we’ve fallen from grace.

I wish to uphold the struggle my ancestors have faced.

Go about the days trying to improve myself…not just to be another black face.

He prefers her, but I prefer me. 

I want to be someone’s only choice, not part of an accessory. 

I am not that black…I am not defined.

I only wish to be proud of my footsteps in this lifetime.

I only wish to change a life…a world other than my own.

I only wish to not be but the color of my skin.

I only wish to not be defined by my looks or physical assets.

I only wish to not be compared to another woman.

I only wish to not be ranked.

I only wish to be a woman who changes the world.

I am not that black….but I am a woman…and that is what I truly wish to be.