Analysis of Black

“Are you Black?”, he shouts out.
This friend I’ve made on the streets of La Jolla,
This sweet, homeless friend who watches me walk by every day,
Believed my curly hair, my high-cheekbones and melanin did betray,
My true African American parentage.
“Maybe”
I flash a smile and answer “maybe”.
I smile.
I smile knowing that that wasn’t skepticism.
That that wasn’t hatred or fear.
But a gentle acknowledgement of our shared brethren.
Black.
It’s interesting how I go from being an Asian-brown to an Indian-black.
Just hopping across the Atlantic, welcome back!
Black.
Not the familiar call of a loving brother.
Just Black…
or Kala or Blackie,
Or my favorite still, “Madrassi”.
Not black like the Kajal that lines and cools the prying eyes of my ex’s Brahmin mother,
Nor black like the skin of the Gods they pray to.
The same one’s they paint blue,
so as to not betray their origin’s true.
But, Black.
Black like tar they can trod on and stomp away from their son’s life.
Like the kind that can cause him and his family so much strife!
Gripped with fear for their eternal Brahmin souls that may never see heaven,
Unyielding, because of the terrible shame my melanin brings upon them.
Log kya kehenge?????
Yet,
Unfazed by their son’s fetish for Beef tongue tacos.
Unconcerned with their daughter’s growing penchant for the Blood curry in that Corner Kadai.
I watch silently as my blackness,
slowly paves the way to utter darkness.
Watch as some of my Brahmin friends turn a blind eye,
Patting him on his back for that White Brahmin wife.
They say, “What can we do”?
You are but a Non-Brahmin, AND Black.
True.
This much IS true
I AM Black.
Black, like their hearts,  
like the fear that chips away at their humanity,
Like the darkness that will come for them in the end,
Where nothingness will greet them,
At the shiny gates of Hell.