Brown

Why does this color stir such fear? Why, when it nears, do clutched hands appear— Purses held tight, phones called like guards, As if presence alone could leave you scarred?

Why do whispers ride on the backs of our steps, When a gathering of Brown draws hush and breath? Why, even now, must we shrink to fit Your comfort zones, your fragile script?

Why must my brown dollars feel like theft, As if success was a thing we left— Behind in chains, behind in time, Unworthy of joy or upward climb?

Why is this skin seen less divine, Less worthy of love, of space, of shine? Why is Brown labeled lazy or slow, When it’s worked twice as hard for half to show?

Why is the voice from these brown lips Dismissed as slang, not scholarship? Why must we shout just to be heard— Only to be told, watch your words?

Why is Brown too loud, too bold, too much? Too raw, too real, too hard to touch? Why is Brown framed as something to fix, To tame, to hide, to scrub, to mix?

Why is this color—the one I wear— Still met with judgment, still seen with glare? Why is Brown made bad, in every shape and form, When Brown has weathered every storm?

Still, we rise—unapologetically proud, Still we sing, still we speak, still we’re loud. For Brown is not your fear to define— It is power, it is beauty, it is mine.

Brown