Dear White People of My High School

Dear White People of My High School,

Stop looking at me.

You, yeah you. I not only see your eyes but I can feel them boring into me. I get it. There are probably no black people in your household. But this is not a zoo. I do not pace back and forth behind a cage for your amusement. You do not get to rile me up for a cheap laugh, then walk away to poke the next minority. You do not get to throw your stones and then scream with laughter when “the black girl gets angry.” Stop looking at me in history class with your white-guilt, puppy-dog eyes. Yes, I know. My ancestors were brought to this country on a boat with shackles on their wrists and ankles. I have known this since I was seven. I understand that teachers skipped the nitty-gritty of slavery up until your freshman year, but that doesn’t give you the right to gape openly. Stop showing me the whites of your eyes whenever the teacher puts on “I Have a Dream.” You look as if you expect me to shed a tear trust me I will not. I was always more of a Malcolm X girl. But do you even know who he is? Do you just think he and MLK battled it out? That Muhammed Ali was their referee and his soul purpose was to declare a winner?  Did you feed into the stigma of Malcolm X being the angry black man? Tell me what facts you know about him. Because I know for a fact you did not learn them in history class.

Stop hanging around me.

You think that this is your public service. That if you spend x amount of time with a black person you become cool by association? Stop coming up to me in the halls and keep asking what rap music you should listen to. As if Kanye and I share a yacht and talk about new artists. And while we are on the subject of music, keep the fucking n-word out of your mouth. It does not belong there. You do not get to be my friend while you sing racial slurs. It is not your word. And while we are at it, stop whining about it too. “But why is it okay for black people to say it?” Because we earned it. Our ancestors did not take whips, chains, being branded, and being owned for you to wear a fake gold chain and pretend your skin is 30 times more pigmented than it is. You are not a baller, you are not a gangster, you are not a player. You are a 16-year-old boy with a trust fund.

Stop making me a joke.

 I am not a mother-fucking Halloween costume. You do not get to go out in blackface as a joke. You do not get to wear a wig of dreadlocks and put gold tinfoil on your teeth. You are not Lil’ Wayne. You do not get to go out and wear butt pads with your acrylic nail set, twerking your way through a Nicki Minaj song. All the while you laugh it off and tell people to call you “Shaniqua” for the night. You do not get to make race jokes. You are not funny, you are problematic. You are pushing back against the progress many of people have made to get to where we are now.

Start asking questions.

            There is more to African-American culture than what the media tells you. Many of us are not thugs that grew up in the slums. Learn about our culture outside of February. We are more than Rosa Parks and MLK. I know that it will be uncomfortable at first. You were always taught to see my color, but to never bring it up. It is okay to be curious. Just make sure that your mind is open and that you are abstaining from judgment. Be open to learning why I sob after learning another life was ended at the hands of the police.

Start learning about me.

            Yes I am black, but that is not the extent of my identity. I am a woman - who would someday like to become a director. I am a sensitive soul - who often cares too much of what others think. I am a loud talker - who uses a loud voice to mask my insecurities.  I am an eager learner, who feels ostracized when I am stared at, berated, and laughed at.

I know that I am destined for greatness. I know that I will do great things with great opportunities. So, if it makes you feel better you can stare, try to be my friend, and laugh at me. In the end, you can watch as I achieve my lifelong dreams. In the end, you can try to be my friend but I can see your motives -- they are not pure in intention. In the end, you can laugh at me, but I’ll be so far above you on the high road that I cannot hear you anyway.

At the end of the day, I still succeed.

Sincerely,

Dominique Prince Points