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Mistaken Identity
We judge in others
what we secretly fear within ourselves,
the mirror of hypocrisy polished daily
until it blinds our reason.
I have walked England’s most expensive street,
and as a Black man,
I was clothed in poverty not of my making—
criminal, beggar, illegal—
an identity sewn into me by design,
to dehumanize for the comfort of others,
a madness normalized as truth.
When I sought only direction,
Miss White turned her face,
her lips cracked with scorn:
“I have no money!”
Her eyes had already robbed me of my dignity
before I even spoke.
This is the devil’s philosophy:
that white is holy,
that pale skin is wealth and high class,
that color is a passport to an imaginary heaven.
And thus we measure souls
by the shade of their flesh
instead of the depth of their wisdom.
I have traveled—
Europe, Africa, Asia—
and everywhere the darker the skin,
the heavier the chains of suspicion.
A second-class citizen
in a world built on fear and mirrors.
Tell me—
has your consciousness evolved enough
to sit in judgment over another soul?
If color and money can buy respect,
then respect itself is counterfeit,
and the empire of prejudice
is poorer than the beggar you despise.
Copyright ©
Chanda Katonga
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