I wanted something else, 

something other than being in this accursed body.

Why must my skin be brown?

Why must I have brown eyes?

Why must my hair be curly?

Why must I have a large nose?

Why can’t I have beautiful white skin like Isabelle, or flowing majestic hair

That is straight like Michelle’s?

Why was I born the way that I am?

Why am I the why I am? 

Why can’t I be normal?

These were the questions I was forced to ask myself.

Before I realized being a negro… no, being an African-American

Was something to be proud of.

Proud to embrace.

Proud to love.

Proud to be.

The day I broke from the shackles of self hate,

The shackles of a ignorant black woman who hated herself

Who hated others of her community

Who hated her body.

Who hated her soul

Who desperately wanted to be white

Who desperately wanted to finally be “normal” and respected.

The day I was dragged to a civil rights rally hosted in a ballroom

On the outskirts of my town

The day I met the man who enlightened me and many others,

A beautiful and well-groomed young man

And the name of that young man was Malcolm X,

The man who changed my life,

The man who made me realize who I am,

The man who made me proud of who I am,

The man who made me realize that I was a man who was proud to be African-American.

Ever since that day I have been inspired… no, immersed in his teachings.

He accomplished something that even my parents couldn’t do,

He made me proud of who I am.

Since those days, I followed wherever he went.

I followed him to his rallies,

I followed him to his meetings,

I even followed him to his death.

But before his death, I was witness to an amazing sight

The Civil Rights Act of 1964.

And as decades pass since that event

I began to ask myself, 

“Are we as a human race

Slowly but surely

Embracing our differences?”

Thanks to Malcom X and those like him,

I think we are.