Skin Wars: The Complexity of Complexion

Skin Wars

“I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.” -Martin Luther King, Jr.

Light skin versus dark skin, the eternal debate between longstanding next of kin.
It’s a pity, such an eternal shame, brothers and sisters in plight divided by a desire to fit into a colored picture frame. How incredulously lame, identity crises brought to birth by an incessant love affair with fleeting fame. Black is no longer our common name. That’s just the nature of today’s game.

Honestly, I’m ashamed by this ridiculous emphasis on pigment,
that such a natural thing should even determine the quality of our treatment.
I know of a black woman named Jasmine, who fancies herself better than Lilly,
simply because the latter has a greater concentration of melanin, under her beautiful skin. Yes really, it’s gotten that silly!

And all the rappers concur, shamelessly obnoxious, ever hypothesizing in music videos that their hot yellow bones make the dark sisters jealous. Negro please! A darker shade is not a disease! If a black man cannot see that, then he is blinded by shades he is unaware he currently wears. He is emancipated on paper but enslaved in practice. And even Lincoln could never have freed him!

And all who instigate battles of the skin, will find that they can never win;
because regardless of complexion, through the myopic lenses of prejudiced eyes we are viewed as the same underestimated concoction. Therefore, as per MLK Jr. will we let the color of our skin define us, or will we decide the content of our character should be the distinguishing factor?

Remember, united we stand, divided we fall.
So that said, God help us all.

P.S. The black race in America must free itself from the superficial shackles of inadequacy born of despicable years of slavery. There is a popular saying that goes, “Black is beautiful.” Every black child should come to know this, believe this, and embody this, regardless of complexion.

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Just Ice

Just Ice

“Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” —Martin Luther King Jr.

What is justice but just ice?
That quickly melts away under the heat of unjust laws?
The same heat that causes a tan so dark it
appears invisible to white justice.

Apparently, an overdose of melanin
causes a shortage of justice.
Invisible children, natural suspects, the flavor of crime.
Naturally, the dark of flesh must be dark of intent too.

No country for black men.
“9-1-1. What is your emergency?”
“Officer, I’m afraid my eyes behold a black man!”
“And what’s he doing?”
“Walking, it would appear!”
“Do not engage suspect! I repeat, do not engage!”

You know the story, his story. It’s history, on replay.
Oh Lady Liberty, I thought you cooked in a melting pot!
What happened? For whom do you carry that torch?
And what of your sister, Lady Justice?
She’s grown tired, I’m afraid.

The weights on her scales have been
too unbalanced for too long.
Her hands know not right from wrong.
Forgive me, they do. It is her eyes that ain’t
right, for they see not the wrong.

Lady Justice, I address you now directly! How
would you like to bury your child?

Silence…

I didn’t think so; no parent should have
to bear such suffering. But alas,
Under your gaze such is the case for this family.
What’s worse, the culprit yet walks and may
yet walk after all is said and done.
Wouldn’t be the first time, may not be the last.

What say you my lady?

Silence…

’Tis a pity you stand silent still. I wish
you would enter your plea.
“Self-defense.”
Ah, but of course. I rest my case.

What is justice but just ice?
That is invariably crushed into oblivion
under the heels of an unjust mistress?

P.S. No justice, no peace. Dedicated to the memory of the
boy, and cause that is the name, Trayvon Martin.

Track Star

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“The woman that I would try is worth every trial that I would face.” -kR

Down in the blocks oblivious to the cheers of the crowd, he has a singular focus – win the race and earn the reward. For truly never before has such a uniquely beautiful medal been at stake. With eyes on the prize he barely notices the hurdles on the track. “Stay in your lane,” he reminds himself to run his own race. As far as he is concerned this race is his for the taking. There is no competition in the seven other lanes, because ultimately his greatest competition is the runner within.

The pistol blasts off and the other runners follow suit! Ah the anxiety of those who pursue the desires of the heart! For his part he runs with graceful strides, relatively slower albeit deliberately so. “Never let your emotions act without the benefit of reason.” By the home stretch the sprinters have grown weary, but having kept a consistent pace he’s still in good shape. As he passes the leading runner who stares at him with mouth agape, he recalls an evening chat he once had with the prize about the fable of the tortoise and the hare. As he remembers the morale of her version he smiles and says to himself, “I just finish what I start.”

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Homecoming

 

“The man who chooses to not recognize his home is worse off than the man who has no home.” -kR

My life, your entertainment. No scratch that, I prefer the term infotainment. Mine is just the story of a little drummer boy marching to his own African beat; We Three Kings conspicuously on repeat, seeking to redeem the essence of my illustrious culture in the presence of naysayers who parade about me like a conniving vulture. Yo Kennyrich that shit you wrote was dope, but behind my back they sling my name around like I was dope! Or yay, but nay I say unto thee. Between me, myself and I, there’s already a crowd of three. So please depart from me before my political correctness falls apart. Otherwise (and that wouldn’t be wise), I’d be tempted to split you like the Red Sea and leave you as alive as the Dead Sea. You dare label me naturally violent when I choose to go on a rant, and yet somehow you expect me to be so tolerant of the rampant oppression of a God damned tyrant? Ah the audacity of the ones who’ve caused us such calamity never ceases to amaze me! What’s a month to our legacy? That’s heresy if you ask me; please don’t fall for that sort of fallacy! Oh Black People! My people – once noble moors, pharaohs of ages ago haplessly reduced into mere dominoes. Our history has been a diminishing domino effect, a hallucination of sorts, closely resembling the butterfly effect. It’s like we were the weed that was smoked but never inhaled, which might explain why in this day today there are brothers like me in jail still waiting to exhale. Now I’m no Moses but I ask you Sir – Mr. Joe Schmo – let my people go! We are salt of the earth and deserve to be exalted on higher ground, not shamefully and despicably buried underground. And our bite is louder than our bark, so for your sake please do release us while there’s still room on Noah’s Ark. My life, your entertainment. No scratch that, I prefer the term infotainment. Mine is just the story of an African King, who unlike Prince Hakeem, his Coming to America had nothing to do with finding his Cleopatra. But rather, who was forged in truth to crash the Board of Chess and clean up the foul mess; not to acquire fleeting fame but to remind the black pawns that they are indeed kings and queens, just caught up in the wrong damn game! I pray this message is entrenched deep within your dome; my brothers and sisters your Kingdom awaits, so please sing along with me, “I’m coming home, I’m coming home, tell the world that I’m coming home. Let the rain wash away all the pains of yesterday. I know my Kingdom awaits, and they’ve forgiven my mistakes. I’m coming home, I’m coming home, tell the world that I’m coming home.”