Don’t call me black,
Call me by my name,
call me by my humanity.
“Black” is one of the many colors
found in the crayon box,
the ink of a pen,
the darkness of shadow;
a shade devoid of character or light –
Yet, I am full of light.
Colors are ideals driven by perception,
Color is only surface.
Pigmentation runs deep.
The green of grass and in the leaves of plants
are not surface colors.
When they get wet,
their green doesn’t wash away;
it gets brighter
it is part of them.
Strip the bark from a tree,
it’s still brown
or shades of it
because brown is within its
nature.
My pigment doesn’t wash away or rub off –
my melanin is my crowning glory.
Neither of these are identifiers –
and I’m not simply a color.
Yes, I am melanated,
But…
I am a person, a being,
of presence, of energy,
of spirit.
I am vital, valuable.
I am adequate.
I am wombman, mother,
I am love itself.
I cannot be classified,
I have class, and…
I am a class all my own.
These “identifications” only exist
to isolate me, separate me,
Invalidate me.
Don’t call me black,
Don’t call me brown,
don’t call me by what you see
on my surface.
Don’t you dare…
I’m more than just that,
I’m more than what is visible.
My layers are their own nature,
not validated simply by a color name.
They are a tangle of blood and bone,
muscle and vein,
emotion and thought…
of pain, and of love.
I bleed when I am cut
I cry when I am hurt
or happy.
I sleep when I am tired
I eat when I am hungry.
I drink when I have thirst;
I imagine, I ideate, I innovate.
I have goals and dreams.
I achieve, and I fail.
Am I so different from
any other being of humanity
that my identity
should be systematized by
a single word,
a color, no less,
a hue?
Is that all I am?
To many, maybe.
To those who know me, love me,
They understand there is more to me
than what the eye sees.
Call me by my name,
Acknowledge my identity.
Call me who I am –
Not what you perceive me as.
Kayfucius 