The way the sun lights upon me makes me feel like a bronzed god. I could put Adonis to shame.

Her golden hour creates this halo around me and crowns me as her own as I step into the fray.

It is expensive to look this good – I have a chauffeur in every store I enter right up until I reach the counter. From the tops of our heads to the soles of our kicks, this life is more than just the quotas and boxes we tick.

I get to camouflage in a game of hide and seek in the dark.

It’s my superpower, this melanin inside me blooming, turning my gums black, blue and purple too.

With great power comes great responsibility. When you step outside that door, you are an ambassador for this house. Look with your eyes and not your hands. Don't touch anything unless you're going to buy it.

You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be used against you in the court of public opinion.

God forbid you show a little emotion, God forbid you be distressed.

And God forbid you shed a tear.

Bullied for our genetics only to watch them become high fashion. Wash day isn't just a day, it's a whole week. It's not just hair, it's my history. It's not just an accessory, it's my identity.

Show of hands for those who've had pens dashed into their afros because people wanted to see if they'd stick…

That one person back from holiday putting their arm next to ours and saying with such happiness “I'm almost as dark as you now!” But they'll happily tell you that they don't see colour.

Zora Neale Hurston said that if you're silent about your pain, they'll kill you and say you liked it.

And yet here I am

Gaslighting myself on their behalf because surely they wouldn't. I mean they just couldn't. I followed the rules and yet still I feel like a fool.

History class during Black History Month was almost always an uncomfortable one. Feeling my skin crawl as pairs of eyes scorched me as the teacher spoke about a segment of my history, a segment reduced to slavery and endless strife.

And yet somehow I wondered why we hadn't been taught about Windrush or the Boer War or Margaret Busby and Walter Tull or Ignacio Sancho or Mary Seacole or Claudia Jones and Notting Hill Carnival. Not even a mention of our contributions to society and space exploration and household security and food. For some reason, it seemed like the trauma was the only part worth speaking of and all these eyes looked to me as their resident spokesperson. But thank God for the teachers who gave a damn.

The culture is more than just our rhythm and blues – it's a kaleidoscope.

It's the way we dress and style our hair. It's the way we walk, it's the way we talk. It's being the blueprint. It's the way we hype one another up over the smallest of things. It's the food we lay out on our banquet tables adorned with love.

It's the silent looks over people's heads in a language only we can understand. It's shape-shifting and contorting ourselves to suit our surroundings and listening to our parents code switch at the drop of a hat. It's the way we show up and show out to gatherings and carnivals and block parties alike. It's aunties and uncles dipping and swaying. It's gathering around elders to hear them tell fables from their youth, watching them pass down knowledge passed down to them by those before and those before them. Listening to them reminisce on what was an age away, when in reality it was just yesterday.

And after all these years, I see.

Indeed I do

I finally see.

Image: Christina Deravedisian