Obsidian

I’ve always been black ya know.

Like my friend Boone says:

Blackity Black Black

Like a chocolate drop starting with my emergence from my mother’s womb with my thick black self.

Black like ya know-ebony.

Jimmy Baldwin in Paris Black.

Black like Boston Blackie-not the PI, but the I, Me Saunie P.

Me, sticking out like a sore thumb on the clenched fist that was my childhood hometown where walking around black could get you knocked down.

Where an acquaintance in my youth lost his life, non sequester, he drown.

Black ever since the posters on my teenage bedroom door claimed ‘seize the time’ and my mother told me that being pro-black doesn’t mean being anti-white...all the time.

I believe she was right.

I’ve always been black since several times as a kid they called me the full spelled out  ‘n word’ in my ‘hood

Even as I used my curiosity and natural leadership skills to do good.

Maybe I was just too bossy for them.

I’ve always been black ya know.

Never a victim. No that’s taking it too low.

A strong sense of worth carried on my back and sometimes front, since birth.

A sense of pride, it may seem to some like I’ve tried to hide-

but does anyone know what’s really inside? The black skin?

The black mind?

As if made of obsidian with all of the psychic powers within born knowing that I have to be twice as good to win.

You know, that kind of black.

Low cut natural hair.

Rocking locks if I want.

Or straightened high femme.

Ahem.

As India Arie sang.

Not unusual thang for creative hair styles comes with the black that is me.

Black like invisible to some-even those who know me.

Or my neighbors who do me no favors when they say I didn’t see you.

I didn’t recognize you.

That’s because they often look right through you, Black.

When my right to walk the streets requires folks to live the creed that all men are created equal. And shall be seen. That’s part one of my tale.

This here is the sequel.

Black like the ancestors of my Greek, Armenia and Italian college roommates-only with roots closer to the sun.

Black like my grandparents who were part of the great migration and whose ancestors built this nation.

But my blackness isn’t only about the color of my skin, the plethora of melanin.

My blackity Black is reflected in what’s within.

The way I move through the world.

Enraptured in the culture of a people-brilliant yet fragile.

Talented yet susceptible to the universality of imposter syndrome

My blackness is beyond what the naive and/or ignorant minds can see, willingly or otherwise.

I’m not in disguise but the blackity Black in me sits so deep in my bones, my being my hide.

But I’m not hidden-

No. Full view to assure that you see me, know me and assured that I see you.

Yeah, that’s the kind of black I am.

Black before it was cool.