Am I Black?

As I look into the mirror

Stare past my skin

And into my soul, I wonder

Am I Black?

Do I come from the hood?

Am I on welfare?

Do I talk slang?

Have I ever been in a gang?

Is my skin dark enough?

Do I know my dad?

How much do my pants sag?

How old was I when I had my first child?

And how many babies do I already have?

I better listen to rap

And freestyle over any beat

If I’m black

Then the new Jordan’s gotta be on my feet.

As I drive the ball down the court

Three point shot like LeBron.

These are the conditions

Synonymous with the Negro experience.

The unofficial qualities

An entire race has become defined by.

I come from the hood

North Avondale is a pretty nice neighborhood.

I’ve never been on welfare.

Ebonics isn’t my first language,

but I can speak it pretty good.

Would you define my schools honor

group as a gang?

I rep “Team Lightskin”

As this pencil passes through my hair.

Yeah I know my dad,

He taught me never to let my pants sag.

And when I’m a dad

I’ll teach my kids the same.

I don’t know if I can rap,

but I bump to the track of Van Halen,

Marilyn Manson, Shakira

Frank Sinatra

Fly me to the moon

With my hops, that are nonexistent

Just like my Jordan’s.

I prefer just Nike’s.

So I ask myself

“Am I Black”?

As I stare back at myself.

I am no longer black.

My kind is ostracized.

Fired upon with words of hate

And segregation

Hands up,

Don’t Shoot

No Justice

I am a pariah.

But I’m okay with being me.

I don’t need your validation

To be admitted to

The Negro Club House.

And yes, I am Black.