How do I know I’m Black?

Through the tutelage of classmates whose parents taught them they were White,

Except when assuring me I shouldn’t be offended when they told ni**er jokes,

Because I wasn’t really Black, was I?

Except for when I was called Kunta Kinte,

Or asked to pick the cotton from an aspirin bottle,

Or when walking while Black,

Or riding a bike while Black,

Or driving while Black,

Searched and questioned because I “fit the description.”

But maybe I’m not really Black after all,

Because Blacks and Whites both had names

For my Black and White genetic combo:

Biracial,

Mulatto,

Halfbreed,

Zebra,

Oreo. . .

But I don’t have stripes,

And mulatto sounds like something from a bougie coffee shop,

And I might be bittersweet with an energizing kick, but I’m not for sale,

And I’m a whole human,

Not half of nothing,

Nor two of something,

Anyway. . .

There’s another mystery. . .

What happens when Black and White humans combine their chromosomes?

Unlike when mixing paint,

Black and White genes yield yellow skin,

According to some Blacks blacker than me,

Because my Blackness isn’t black enough for them.

Called yellow by Blacks,

Yet seen as Black by Asians,

Who’ve been labeled as Yellow,

Or seen as redbone by some,

But seen as Black by Natives,

Who’ve been labeled as Red by others,

And back to Blacks and Whites both saying I’m not really Black,

While knowing I’m not really White either?

The hilarious common ground of colorism!

So who or what am I?

Like Papa San say:

A me, A me, A me, A me,

Don’t compare me wi nobody.