A Day in the Life of Tolkien Black

What’s misunderstood

should be explained.

But how can I make them see,

the jokes don’t work anymore.

I’m not what they think I am,

or what they see on tv.

I am more complicated than a rap lyric-

More fragile than a slave film-

Darker than the night

on a new moon,

but brighter than the sweltering sun

on a summer’s day.

I stand around these parties

and watch as their side comments

and mannerisms implicate

that those like me are one in the same.

They remain unfazed by their harmful rhetoric

because they don’t face the same scrutiny.

In tragedy, they are brave “finders”,

while I’m coined the dirty “looter”, pilfering

for the same relief…

Jokes at my expense seem harmless

because they see me as an exception–

“a good one”–

is that somehow

supposed to make everything better?

But I’m also not of my “kinfolk”.

Though my skin is a reverent shade

of King Solomon,

my hair a lamb’s envy,

I barely speak the same language.

In barbershops

I can’t add to discourse.

At cookouts,

safe foods fill my plate

while our traditional

dance songs have everyone,

but me,

in line.

They too, like their lighter counterparts

make jokes at my expense

because they believe,

I still speak the same

language-

But I straddle this fence,

a balancing act

only I can do-

because it is the way I am.

One side never

overtaking the other,

just giving enough energy,

to make me uncomfortable

in whatever

setting I’m in.