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The difference between him and me, however, is that I would never use his words to hurt him.
Why is Belle acting like she suddenly cares about me?
Memory is weird like that.
When you grow up like this, whether it’s in your nature or not, sometimes survival overpowers doing the right thing.
I don’t straighten my hair because I hate it; I straighten it because everyone else hates it for me.
It makes me wonder if my resemblance to my mother has anything to do with this—with Aces. Whether Devon and his Blackness and myself and mine are the reason this creep is picking on us. I feel sick at the thought of it.
If we can’t talk about it honestly, and I mean really talk about it, then what’s the point?
It was a look I always thought meant mischief. But now … it feels like hate.
Growing up, I realized quite quickly that people hate being called racist more than they hate racism itself.
“Not all people are suited for higher education. Especially your kind. Your kind needn’t have an education.”
1965 … 1975 … 1985 … The Black students … they all just … disappear. Their senior year.
One where my hair was petted, tugged, laughed at, pointed out, banned in school rule books.
Dreaming is dangerous. But I allow myself to this time.
