Hi Jess,
can I call you Jess?
Say yes.
Go on,
we’re family, probably,
somewhere along the lines,
right?
Because we’re the same,
ebbing between ethnic lines,
except mine isn’t a lie.
You’ve got me all mixed up,
sis,
and I was already a confusing concoction.
Not quite white enough to wade away from racism,
but not quite black enough for white people,
like you,
to stop talking over me.
(There’s also the whole thing of me and my dad disproving the delusion that black people don’t exist in Europe, but that’s another anecdote for another time.)
Sis,
you’ve got me fucked up,
obsessing over us,
as if being called a nigger before you even know what it means is something you can fake tan in,
sis,
that shit stays in my skin,
my half breed,
harmed skin,
that has been hated for as long as I remember,
and then,
there you are,
peeling it off,
putting it on,
so you can have a peek at my experience.
Do you like what you see,
sis?
Painting your name on pavements that are covered in black blood.
Ring Rachel,
bring her round,
and let’s hash this out.
Let’s find out why white women are so into enabling racists with invalidating mixed kids,
and talking over the black women who are barely audible,
over the baying of “allies” like you,
who paint themselves into pictures they don’t belong in,
by painting their skin,
into what they think we look like.
Me?
I am Mariah.
Meghan Markle,
mixing the lines,
but unable to heal the divides,
but you?
I don’t know who you are,
and I don’t think you ever will either.
