by Tamara Jordan
I remember that time in 1992.
We were friends. You acted like you knew.
You rolled with us. You spoke like us. Swayed your hips like us. You were just us.
When the going got tough though, you remembered I was black.
We were tight until you brought home that boy. He looked just like me.
Skin the color of sable.
I was confused because you were born to a non-traditional mother.
No father. Your mama had a female lover.
I didn’t understand her JUDGMENT.
No black boys in her house. No black boys allowed.
No black offspring. No race mixing.
I thought I had a seat at your table.
You smiled. She smiled. We smiled all of us. Together.
My smile was real. I thought you saw ME.
I think you saw me, but you didn’t fight for him. For me.
Past this beautiful skin and these perfect white teeth. You were white silent.
All along I was black. He was black. We were black. Too much blackness.
And I didn’t even know it.
Tamara Jordan is an avid reader and special educator from the outskirts of Los Angeles, CA. She currently advocates for the educational rights of children with disabilities.