Not Quite Militant, Far From Bourgeois

F**k the happy Negro.

I'm not him, kissin' the master's boot when he offered a scrap of red meat from his elongated table.

Not anymore.

I know I'm entitled to that porterhouse steak in front of him, after busting my ass for free all these years. 

While I'm at it, bring out the finest of wines and put those two baked potatoes over there.

I'm not your black friend, partner!

Today, I'm more like your worst nightmare now that I know how to navigate the system and annihilate you at your own game.

No whispering, stammering, speaking softly, avoiding eye contact today!

Meet your maker motherf**ker! I AM THE HEAD N*GGA IN CHARGE!

Nobody will be able to hear your wails and shrieks,

And when I get through with you, Barbie will be screaming my name as your bed squeaks!

I'm gettin' my forty acres and mule, and if I take that Mercedes too, then all the more merrier!

That is past due, like the bad check your ilk has given us.

"The last shall be first, and the first shall be last!"

How ya like them apples?!!

...meanwhile, on the other side of my mind...

I know better to think like that (aloud); better leave some things in my vivid imagination.

My life is pretty good, I suppose: near-perfect credit, happy wife, kid, house with white picket fence, good neighbors, private schools, and the police can be relied upon to do the right thing. 

See? There's an American flag hanging from the flagpole, not one of Africa!

I can't imagine living in the ghetto, going from hand to mouth having to rob Peter to pay Paul or...gasp? Selling drugs!

That's what those thugs do, with their jeans sagging and dreadlocked heads.

I hope they grow up and shave. No one's going to give them a job looking like that. 

Oh, goodness! Don't the folks down the street know how to use a poop scooper? My lawn is not meant for dogs to do their business and have it left behind for me to step into.

Well, I don't have to hear all of that infernal racket shaking my Pella windows out of their foundation nor see all of those Skittles-colored Chevrolets parked on the grass up and down this cul-de-sac.

Needless to say, life is pretty gosh darned good. If only the newspaper would actually land in my driveway...

...in reality...

As much as I may want to backhand my boss, I do realize that I need this job to pay for our lifestyle.

That sometimes means doing things I don't care for, like shaving my beard, cutting the afro, or perpetuating a tired idea. 

Little does he know that my inner Malcolm X is raging daily, and quite intimidating to the average man. 

Being affable is not a license to live as if nothing bad has ever happened to me. 

My cousin put it best:  Being militant doesn't get the bills paid. You have to grow up and know when to use your might. 

It's okay to be ethnocentric, just not a supremacist. That's not cool.

I know my daily struggle and am eternally appreciative of it; without it, I wouldn't know what to do through the storms.

So, say it loud!

I'M BLACK AND I'M PROUD!