My melanin complexion shouldn’t be a reason for your rejection. I love myself without any doubt or hesitation. The world is only subject to me and my imagination. My looks and body are merely a decoration, while my mind and morals should be appreciated in admiration. You look at me and wonder, “Is her hair a mutilation?” And yet, you want to touch it in absolute fascination. My love for fried chicken and watermelon is suddenly an expectation, but if I say you don’t season your food, then you overreact in frustration. It’s what the white man wants me to do and say through his twisted communication, to just put my head down and ignore the discrimination. At a point in time, you have to remember your foundation, try and learn from whatever is your current situation, and stand with your message in full dedication.

You look at the news of one of our deaths as a celebration, then send one of your policemen for the next elimination. You throw bullets like you’re preparing for a revolution. Their sons and daughters died at your hands without so much as an introduction, simply because you couldn’t ignore your unfair assumptions. For you, letting us live can’t be a negotiation, bullets come from you like deadly precipitation. I can’t walk past a police car without fearing unnecessary confrontation, a quick moment of believing that my skin color is a social violation. You pull us over in unjustified irritation, immediately thinking we have an attitude, and begin your plan for assassination. Then you look at your deputy in contemplation, and let the few lucky ones go to marinate in humiliation.

He was running in the neighborhood, unaware of the upcoming situation. He was shot dead without a hint of consideration. She was shot eight times with no explanation. And of course, the police suffered no devastation. The officer’s knee was draped across his neck as ornamentation. The officer ignored his cries for help, basically saying his well-being was out of the question. A melanin sister gone because of an unexpected shooting session. Two melanin brothers gone for never getting the chance to explain their sides of various accusations. Isn’t it sad how I said no names, but you knew the identities of these annihilations? My brother is a young black man in this world; is he the next BLM headline for this nation? At this point, justice for these three and the others in the world seems like a thing of fiction. I’m sorry, angels, but our movement hasn’t reached completion. As long as we’re alive, they’ll hate anyone with a hint of cinnamon pigmentation.

The white women who love flaunting their black husbands and children create a different type of equation. They think their black family members give them melanin by association. As soon as one of us dies, your “melanin” leaves with no procrastination. Suddenly, we’re thugs and gang bangers because we aren’t fellow Caucasians. It’s interesting to see your hatred for us, especially since you packed us onto ships to be your slaves for a thousand generations. I could continue to ask why you long for our termination, but then I wonder who would be up next to unwillingly bleed on your plantation.

And while we’re at it, let’s talk about immigration. In school, we’re taught to look at other cultures in appreciation, but a certain president wanted them to go through an unbearable “initiation.” We have Columbus Day and call it colonization, but we all know that wasn’t a deserving certification. You basically stole other countries through infiltration, but we have immigrants’ hopes for a new life burning in disintegration.

This country we live in has a certain reputation. Other countries and cities left us a demonstration, but the United States can’t seem to find their motivation. I refuse to be like particular celebrities and let my melanin take a vacation or let the morals I’ve grown up with take a resignation. Although the world and I may have a color complication, I’ve got to keep fighting to continue my education and gain the information, so I can prove them wrong and be another success story of my generation.