Dark Age

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Nappy, thick, and tough. That's how my hair feels every morning. I grab the jar of shea butter and my smooth ebony brush. Ivory clumps and ridges welcome my chocolatey fingers as I attempt to run my hand through my hair; I squeeze my slender body through my cluttered desks, to the mirror in my tiny NYU dorm room...I see myself, tall and slim, but I see more. I see a complexion I've never loved. The reasoning is simple ...you see. Whenever people turn off the lights; they never see me. The girls all want a lightskin ball player. I've got many nicknames including the word "black"... Each sunrise perusing upon myself, I come to the conclusion that I'd rather be a field boy who would soon die ... Rather than a black boy just trying to live.

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