"If you're from America, why are you black?"

When you look at me, what do you see?
Well I guess it depends on the person.
Some see my bright smile when they pass me.
Some see my unique fashion sense.
Some see my biracial features.

Others—the more-close minded of the human race—see my brown, disgusting, “un-American” skin color.

Yet they don’t smell the stench of poverty wafting from my clothes.
They don’t see me as another high-school-drop-out that is pregnant with her third child from yet another “baby daddy”.
They don’t see a prominent row of cornrows on my head.
They don’t hear the clap of my hands in rhythm to every syllable in my sentence when I’m trying to prove a point.

Dey don’t hur me speek dat dumbass ebonics crap dat dem whites is sayin us black folk use.

But, they hear my clear and crisp speaking voice.
They listen to my proper use of a colorful vocabulary.
They listen as I support my opinion using only my intellect and a normal inside voice,
never once causing a ruckus.
They see my immense success as a student.
They see who I really am.

I was once asked, “Why don’t you go back to Africa?”

I’m from Ohio.

I am the person that racists don’t understand.
The black girl that the “n word” doesn’t define.

I am not a definition.

I am a person.
Unique like every other human being in this world.
Why can’t people just understand that?
Why do we have to put labels on everything?
Last time I checked, the world wasn’t a goddamn grocery store.