When I search on the internet it says, my brothas not getting killed and sistas not getting raped is a part of my privilege. As if throwing dirt on a coffin is something that’s apart of my culture because the only thing you know about being black is snatched edges cain rows and yo homie. You wanna copy my beauty, wear that geo print on your back. But you still ain’t ready to carry my pain on your shoulder blades. But I’ve gotta be ready to carry my household on my head, my siblings on my back. I felt like I traded my spine for a crowbar.
When I signed on that dotted line, well theoretically speaking. When your veins are filled with melanin it means that you sign a contract agreeing to listen and obey well that only applies when a gun is pointed at your head. But when it comes to sitting in class and the topic of slavery comes up the world falls quiet and now I’m allowed to say everything that’s on my mind. Because that’s all my history is limited to. My ancestors getting whipped in their backs tryna escape being stopped in their tracks “Jebril do you have anything to say on this matter?” You know what yeah I do.
I’m tired of having to take it all, having to laugh it off. My black privilege states that I need to have the same sense of humour as Jesus Christ remember how he smiled on the cross. Every day being scared of crucifixion. Sticks and stone my break my bones but words will always hurt me.
Since we’re on the topic of education, let’s talk about it. How can it be the key to success yet you keep the poor locked out. We get hand-me-down books and teachers who give us hand-me-down stares. You shoot me down with your words and looks but I rise back up again like a phoenix from its ash.
Asserting my black privilege means me using a dead boy’s name to get your attention. Oscar, George, Daunte, and Stephen are their names, they’re humans not common criminals. Now I’ve caught it.
Again.
Let me tell you why I’m mad. It’s the fact that Barbie is the standard of beauty.
Y’all just can’t stand our negro flare. I mean having an afro or dreadlocks on a doll’s head sounds like a nightmare. I mean could you imagine your little girl wanting to grow up with Bantu knots or her inspiration being Obama? Your precious little boy growing up wanting to be like Saka and not Lionel Messi.
The stereotype that black people can’t swim, stems deeper than we are just afraid of water. Because armbands don’t fit our chicken arms. The reality is I’m scared of my feet stroking more than just moving currents because if I put my foot down I might crush the bones of my ancestors. Remember the ones that chose death over bondage. The ones that chose running up that hill to meet God instead of running up and over that hill to see the horizon after being doused by cotton. And blinded by leather whips.
The stereotype is that the “blacks” stay uneducated. It’s your choice to listen to the words and rhymes I just spat but to all of yous’ who didn’t dismiss the bars that flowed from my lips to your ears will realise that I just spat these bars again as reverse racism. That is black privilege.
About the Author
My name is Jebril Umo. I am a 14-year-old black male from Southeast London. I have always had a passion for writing and it is something that I am good at. Being a young black boy comes with many challenges. However, I always stay resilient to them and I never give up on something my mother had taught me when I was young.
I would love to say thank you to everyone who made this possible, to everyone who supported me through my journey. Growing up I had a headteacher in my primary school and she would always say “when you are famous don’t forget to quote me,” I’m not quite famous yet but this is the closest I’ll get. So this goes out to, Mrs Maragh, Ms Hoad, Miss Hilton, Mrs Murray, but most importantly my Family.