I wrote this poem inspired from my schooldays and my reflections on that now as an adult, and its related connotations.
Also, this poem talks about how discrimination can happen between privately-educated / state-educated people of the same ethnicity.
This poem was deeply-inspired by ‘Privilege’ by Lacey Roop. She’s a slam poet and author poetry collection And Then Came the Flood.
At fourteen, I was educated with the children of the rich and entitled.
At lunch I sat with them – children who lived in big houses.
Honestly, I disliked most of them. I didn’t want to be one of them.
My mom was a teacher, my father worked in IT.
The parents of these children were lawyers and businesspeople.
In other words, they sold lies for a living; however, like my colleagues, I never knew the meaning of without or hungry.
Some of the friends I made at school were people who had never encountered people of colour before – other than those they saw on television.
I grew up around people who had names like Seonai and Winston and Darius and Precious and Paris and Isaiah.
And they grew up with people who had names like Mary-Kate, Anna-Grace, Elizabeth-Anne, Tom-Harry and John-Paul.
By today’s standards, they’d be known as progressive white folks who had more money than they knew what to do with.
They were the offspring of people who felt uncomfortable around someone like me, a child – whose last name wasn’t Jones or Smith, whose skin tone was a shade too dark, too dug up earth for their white picket fence.
One time, I was invited to a party. Drugs and underage girls littered it like confetti. The houses of lawyers and CEOs and surgeons, people who had inherited everything they owned.
When other Black people here how I talk, they question who I am. They question my ethnicity and identity.
Just because when I spill the heart contents of my chest, they ask if I am really Black. Because I talk too well for this colour.
As if my blood is not infested with the same slave plantation mud as theirs. I do not hate my skin but I’m often ashamed of those who share the same melanin as me.
Judging me on my RP and how I was raised, not what I say or how I behave. I hear people say, “If you know better than do better.”
This is why I can’t gawk from the side lines when I see Black people putting each other down. When I see colourism dividing us by our different shades of brown.
Black Privilege is feeling the bitterness of other people who look like me. This private school childhood is being the token Black.
It’s knowing my mouth is more bulletproof than Charlottesville which is why I use this mouth loud, even in the face of that bitterness.
To keep certain ears attuned to “You know better so be better.” For my eyes to be whitewashed and imperialised. Black privilege is a fiction, a fantasy.
It’s the assumptions people make because they hear my softly-spoken syntax – this relaxed tone of voice. This privilege-sounding tongue-tied man subverting stereotypes.
It’s the judgements we take without thinking. I was stop and searched by police for simply blinking… wrong place wrong time.
Having privilege is never having to think or talk about it. I’m always thinking and talking about it.
And if we all have voices to use, why on Earth should we stay silent?