Un-White

I feel confused;

and sometimes ashamed,

of my whiteness.

I love the color black, specifically.

And I remember how

un-white people were made a curiosity

growing up in my small town.

I made a friend who was black,

and I loved her well.

I knew how she felt about her color;

only because she told me what it was like,

to be the only black kid,

rather, the only black girl,

in our placement of prejudice and ignorance.

We would slouch together in giggles,

and puff on marijuana cigarettes,

laying on a bare mattress,

in her grandmother's sagging apartment.

In a room covered in cheap plaster,

with leftover nicotine stains on the ceiling;

we became best friends.

We would lay leg to leg,

while I pretended to watch the movies she played;

but instead, it was she I admired;

twisting her coily black hair on her fingertips,

chewing on her phone cord,

and convincing a boy we knew

that he loved her too.

After all these years,

I keep this silly little doll we colored;

half black for her,

and half white for me.

I remember how she laughed at it;

our best friends forever token.

I remember how she walked down the halls of our school,

her head held high.

She didn't care who stared.

She was loud and brash,

but I knew she was terrified.

My friend is gone now.

She and her baby were killed

by one of those marijuana cigarettes,

by a stray ember that found a bare mattress.

A mattress like the one we used to lay on.

They died together,

in a sagging apartment.

An apartment like the one we used to play in.

I imagine them sleeping on their bellies

when the thick,

black,

smoke took them away in wisps.

That was the one time I hated the color black.

Like I said, I had a friend who was black;

and I loved her well.

There was once a summer when I chased a boy,

following his grin through the darkness

because

that's all I could perceive of him

against the night sky.

I wanted to catch him

so that I could admire his black,

coffee-bean skin.

I wanted to feel the sound of his voice;

if I was lucky enough for him to speak to me.

He smiled at me,

urging me to chase him;

to catch him if I dared.

I smiled back;

enchanted by his beauty.

Within minutes

we were reprimanded by a pastor

because;

he was black,

and I was white.

"Don't chase THAT boy!" He sneered.

I grieve now,

because

I realize it wasn't my whiteness,

nor their blackness,

that was ever worthy of shame.

When hate would walk away,

or leave us alone,

we;

the black and the white,

we loved each other,

in rooms where they were not allowed!

I drink coffee-black skin,

and curl my toes in the soils and sands of this world,

enjoying the shades and tones,

yet weeping,

because;

I love the color black specifically.

Which I was told

was a gesture,

of un-whiteness.