All Black people don’t look alike

white man, white man

I have tried for so long to avoid addressing how you make me feel.

Out of sight, out of mind – right?!


I will always say that I initially ended up in my last bid of therapy because of the PTSD I experience as a result of growing up in the rural South.

I mean, I ain’t know it was PTSD but I knew something wasn’t right.

At the most random times, weird shit would happen.

For example, to this day I associate different color street signs with being outside of my safe space.

The ones inside the city, inside the hood are green.

Green is good.

Those are the ones I am familiar with.

Those ones I can maneuver.

When you start seeing them blue and red motherfuckers…

Yea, nah.

Abort mission.

Don’t pass go.

Fuck them two hundred dollars.

Those are the places my Black ass avoids because, I don’t know if you know what I mean when I say this –

But you can just feel that your presence isn’t welcomed or appreciated.

It’s too many cop cars.

Not enough Black people.

And I stick out like a sore thumb.

It might all be in my head.

But I can tell you one thing.

That ain’t where it stays.

Just knowing the colors of the signs are about to change –

My hands start sweating and shit.

I start getting nervous.

All while thanking God that I upgraded from that car that ain’t have no hubcaps.


Seat belt on super visible and tight.

Doing all types of extra shit I don’t never do.

Both hands on the steering wheel at 12 and 3 and shit.

Or wherever they need to be to be considered legal.


You might fuck around and catch me riding the rest of the ride in silence.

Cus, I wouldn’t want the sound of my voice to be the thing that fucks up my chances of getting back home to my kids.

Don’t want no problems from the white man.

The white woman – we can often reason.

But that white man?

He’s vicious.

And he often sits in a place of power.

The power to let you live in peace.

Or to completely fuck your life up.

And for some reason their words always reign louder than a voice like mine.

Proper never got me no where with them.

Proper education and etiquette ain’t enough.

Even if I sat in the same classes with them.

And conferred the same degree.

Somehow I would still remain unqualified to speak, let alone question, the truths that belonged to me.

I don’t know how they do it but they can even find offense in that!

Well, damn.

And then, you ever been scolded by one of them?



If that ain’t some of the most demeaning shit.

Like, mr. white man – my Momma don’t even talk to me like that.

And she’s the one that brought me in the world and the only one who could rightfully take me out.

But right doesn’t seem to matter in this dynamic.

No matter how many things I share in common with a white man.

In his eyes, I will never be where he is at.

I will always be in a position lower than him.

And he will speak down to me from that position.

Tip: Find your people.

To be fair, I don’t rule out all white men.

Cus that’s wrong.

But I’m also not beat on proving to them that all Black people don’t look alike.

I don’t desire to prove that I deserve the space I take up.

My Momma told me I was all that and a bag of chips.

And my God told me I was worthy.

What not to do: Don’t deviate from your path cus the street signs changed their color.

One thing you can bet on is that true intentions will always reveal theirs.

And that will always never have anything to do with you.

+Ci Ci+