love yourself

you're pretty good at lovin' me
i got some excess on the shelf
the essential question, though, it seems
have you learned to love yourself?



-----------

make sure the make-up's right
'cuz your jeans are getting tight
whatever the reason,
whatever the season,
they'll never let you survive

taking stock of my blackness

taking stock of my blackness

my father taught me to put 'african american'
on my college applications
i'd have a better chance of getting in, he said
with a knowing glance and a grin, he said this thing
my upper-middle class white suburban upbringing
didn't say a word
it didn't need to

and i'm pretty sure that's all he ever taught me
about being black
maybe it's the only thing it's ever got me,
being black
a chance to notch my class a bit higher
to call myself a writer
to get a bit whiter

i didn't self-identify as a person of color
until a couple years ago

and it's not his fault;
we had books and he
he tried sometimes but
the other shit on his mind
like being a doctor,
running a business,
dealing with quite a few
quite dysfunctional
progeny
and ex-wives
runs lives

and anyway
racism was over
he made it
why keep harping on something
that isn't really relevant anymore
don't want to get a victim complex
and i was light skinned enough
i was never gonna be oppressed
unless i let that shit get to me

right?

when i look at my students now i wonder
what being black really means

and it wasn't until college that i decided
to take stock of my blackness

and i think it comes down to my hair

i learned late that hair is big
in the black community
the weaves, the perms, the fades, the fros
the constant struggle - and
good hair or not
i had to struggle too

these days old black women
with kind eyes tell me
they love my curls
old white women too

and the girls always wanted to run their
hands through it

but it wasn't until the colombian lady
that cut my hair for twelve dollars when
i was away the first year of college, away from
the free trims my dad would give me
told me to leave the conditioner in
that the struggle
against the fuzzy nappy mess on top of my head
was over
that that hair
could be tamed
and the struggle ended

you see i never knew any black women
so i never knew
what to do
with my hair
all my peers had it straight
and when mine was cut short enough
it was straight too
sort of

my pops
bless his heart
never learned about hair texture
was still stuck in that
60s mindset
when i wanted to experiment with
growing it long
he asked me whether i was trying to rebel
i felt echoes
long dormant
heard a voice i'd never heard
a grandfather or mother
i'd never known
an altogether legitimate worry
knowing how uppityness
is perceived

it wasn't until i was told
to try to
leave the conditioner in
that i lost that struggle against my hair
i mean won
that i took stock of my blackness

because what is to be black if not
to struggle

that struggle
that keeps my students from wanting to be scholars
steve urkel or carlton or twofer
the black nerd's only TV
representation
no fucking wonder

the struggle against the SAT
against the teachers that tell them to be quiet
that tell them to speak
the right way
the white way
to sit down
to stay down,
hands behind your back
you shut the fuck up
when i'm talking to you boy
the recognition
that what's on top is a white man
that to be on top is to become a white man

a struggle i never had

and when i no longer have to
struggle over hair
or really over anything
i didn't have anything
black
left