Intolerant of my ebony-like beauty, bigoted words nibble at the nape of my neck while an articulation of the more 'non-standard' English steam from my untamed mouth a lucid rhythm of language.

I look and feel the air about me as I stand in the fanciness of this social affair.

How could nature not bequeath upon me its rite of passage?

To my deepest astonishment however, calculated lectures on the issue of race dare me to be black.

But instead, I find myself honeymooning on the tide of despair, pondering what to do with the kinks of my hair, contemplating how I shall disguise the hue of my skin, how I shall learn to detest my patriotism: my flag, my pledge, my language, my song.

But, before I apportion to myself such grave misfortune, I'd rather lay me to rest in sweet and complete surrender to my black self.