Why Does Being Diverse Feel Like a Curse?

There are two colors that adds up to the mixed tint on my back,

But society out there only sees one color first.  It’s Black.

The monster out there doesn’t see me as me: Diverse,

They just get a hint of my skin and look away as if it hurts.

The eyes of the guys that I Spy,

Make me believe that I with a white would only be a lie.

As a child I was finding myself

I felt like this diverse hurts,

But I didn’t understand because,

They would go out and buy black and white shirts.

I remember as a child I asked my, wonder bread mother, if I was adopted

Her blue eyes just looked down at me, silent, with anger popping.

When I was about five I met my half sister for the first time,

It was on Woodward Street I remember,

Yeah I remember walking outside

Locking eyes with her brown eyes.

I only saw that her skin was pale, I called her a cracker,

And watched her smile fail.

I would go out on the playground and experiment with words.

Like Scraw-berry, and negro, I thought it was their lingo

But then again how would I know.

If it talks like a duck, and walks like a duck, it must be

Well, that’s what people would tell me.

But see

I walk like a white,

talk like a white,

act like a white,

dress like a white,

Tried to become what they defined as “being white”…

Has it changed me?

Or do you still glance questioning thee?

Stop looking for a color. Okay? Just stop and tell me what you see.

I’m white and black.

Google it.

It’s called diversity.