Malia Black Poet I do not know?

The Plight of Being Me

I'm mixed, biracial, an oreo, a mutt. I get called a lot of thing but in the end I'd like to be called human. That's all I am anyway.

I don't fit in.
Not with the whites.
Not with the blacks.
Not with anything else.

I don't fit in because I'm different,  because I am two halves that have somehow made a whole. 
But I don't feel whole. 

I'm mixed, biracial, an oreo, a mutt. I get called a lot of thing but in the end I'd like to be called human. That's all I am anyway.

I have nappy, curly hair. No one can tame it. No one wants to.
I never count as a whole person- not to anyone, anyway.
I have to choose "other" when stating my race on a form because I will not pick one half, I will not conform.

White people don't want me because I am black.
And black people don't want me because I am white.

Blacks act like my great grandparents didn't get whipped across the back. 
Whites act like I belong on the other side, as if about my race I lied.

I struggle with self identity, no place to put myself amongst society. 
I stick out, a much different variety.

I can not exist- some say- because mixing races is against their religion.
What am I within, if I am a living, breathing, sin?

Life isn't always black or white, sometimes it's both, sometimes it's me.

So now,
do you see,
 the plight of being me?

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