Black In America

Black In America.

i felt it for the first time.

how Ironic.

I was always Black In America.

my skin was always considered Black.

i was always considered Black.

i identified myself as Black.

i lived in America and was Black.

but what made me,

Black In America.

i left America when i was 11,

i was Black then.

i moved to kuwait for my dad’s job,

i was Black then.

but last summer when I went to new york,

i realized i was Black In America.

shootings, police, protest,

was the weekly cycle.

who was next? i?

the repeated shootings of a race,

made me look at my skin differently.

it made my body tense as i walked past the police.

it made me mutter;

“fuck the police”

under my breath.

as they lined along the streets,

the streets i walked down everyday,

it made me realize my presence was a threat.

an uncontrollable factor automatically made me a nuisance.

it made me paranoid.

it made my male black friends want a gun.

it made them worry about their protection from the force that was supposed to protect.

it made us all walk a little differently.

it was a stride of confidence mixed with cautiousness,

but never too much confidence.

summer ended and i left new york,

i was Black then.

and i returned to kuwait,

Black still.

but the feelings of being,

Black In America,

changed my perception of myself and the future.

it made me fine tune my passion for journalism.

it made me want to write about social and human rights.

it made me want to write about Black America.

it made me want to hope for a better future.

but for now,

i'm just Black In America.

This poem is about: 
Me
My community
My country
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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