"Shuttup, nigga.” Derogatory jargon fled through beige-pale lips all too many times in these halls. How many times can you tell me you’re sorry for slipping the “N-word,” you bloody cracker? Maybe the brown kids think it’s okay cause “Hey! We’re from Bangladesh!”, or “we were all slaves at some point, right?” How many pairs of those shallow-set eyeballs peek at me through folded skin daily, expecting me to bite someone’s head off for demeaning my race? When will I be able to be loud without being “ghetto?” And GODDAMNIT if one more person calls me ghetto I swear to GOD. Matter of fact they don’t fully comprehend the meaning of the word; because for some reason that Asian boy who likes to try to chill on the 5th floor and sags his jeans with a fitted to match his nik’s is officially ghetto. Yes, he’s that “ghetto Asian kid” because my previous notion that ghetto was slapping your television for good reception is all wrong. How many times will I open a history textbook to find my people have no more than a paragraph and somehow everyone in the classroom is the most bored during that period? I am supposedly “learning” in this world of cliques. The blacks hold down a bench on 5, while the whites whore on 2, brown kids henna on the fourth floor, while the Asians handball on 8. Lunch tables smell like Jim Crow, except for this time we segregate ourselves. Freshman get cut in front of and the brownies get 8th period lunch so that they can pray. Little Ling Yi prefers to go by Sue because America doesn’t have the time to learn her name, so she sits with the other name-changers and Priyanka sits alone so that she can adjust her religion over her forehead without someone asking to see her hair. Lunch ladies like us ‘cause we’re the only black ones, and maybe that’s why I get extra fries but that’s about the only perk. That bitch ass assistant principal wants me expelled for something she let Evilika do just the other day, and maybe that’s not a melanin thing but I can’t help but to look at her and see “nigger” in the pupil of her eye, laughing; she’s reflecting her view of me right back and I can’t shake what I can’t touch. So for three years I’ve been tip-toeing on thin ice; I can’t afford to trip while everyone is watching. The living space called a locker is $12 here, so senior year better be damn good. Maybe I’m just ranting because I go to a school where racism is heavy and no one will admit it; but so be it, you asked for a school sig change, and now you have one.
Thats good. And I know how you feel, being a senior and going to a school with some racism. I just kept being me cause them motherfucka`s was not gone determine whether or not I graduate, cause if so, I was gone sue some asses. l0l
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myYAHOO : prinzezdeseray@yahoo.com
Posts: 6649 | Location: M I A ; | Registered: 26 July 2005
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