Written by Mandie Rivera
Illustrated by Victoria Decembert
I am the dirt that won’t come out of your t-shirt.
The more detergent you use,
the more I will resist your white wash.
And as much as you try to get rid of me,
you act as a parrot that won’t stop mocking me.
By taking my culture,
wringing it out,
you make it dry for your own liking.
You try to break the racial tension with your hands:
touching my hair,
ruining my fro,
as you tell me how deserving you are for my beautiful hair texture.
You made things worse with the picture you painted of me:
angry with a dash of wild animal.
And you always claim that I need to calm down
as if I’m riled up with my kids in the car listening to Kidz Bop.
You sit here and cry wolf every chance you get for attention.
Is it because God cooked me well done and you medium rare?
Or are you scared of the strength that the generations before me passed down
causing me to be stronger than you’ll ever be in your life?
Now, I’m letting you know that I’m not angry.
I am as confident as I am powerful.
So wipe off the stamp you smashed on my forehead, labeled:
This is an angry Black woman.