Somedays
Being Black in America feels like a never-ending game of musical chairs
The DJ’s favorite song is “meritocracy”
You only see yourself and other Black people dancing
Like modern-day minstrels around
Chairs like
Graduate programs
White-collar jobs
A living wage
Chairs that were never made for you
Chairs that were made to keep you dancing
Somedays
Being Black in America feels like a rigged game of monopoly
You and your brother and your cousin and your best friend
Keep landing on the space marked “Go to Jail”
Keep drawing cards marked “Go to Jail”
Keep seeing whole neighborhoods marked “Go to Jail”
And sometimes, even that is a privilege because,
Somedays
Being Black in America feels like a bad game of charades
You comply
You put your hands up
You sit in your house
They guess “threat”
They guess “violent”
They guess “weapon”
Somedays
Being Black in America feels like chess, not checkers
Grandma tells your brother “never fuck a white woman”
Momma cuts off your sister’s dreads so she can “look professional enough to get a job”
And you are tired of navigating a PWI
Tired of knowing that everything you say and do is seen as a representation of all Black people
You are tired of the DJ playing “meritocracy”
You are tired of monopoly boards filled with “Go to Jail” spaces
You are tired of the police guessing incorrectly
You are tired of playing chess with white people
But most of all
You are tired of being played