Who am I to BE? How dare I express the right to be me? My smile must be tainted with a frown, lest my happiness make you uncomfortable. My intellect makes you feel inadequate, so of course I must have a superiority complex or some other psychosis to ease your discomfort. My sincerity must be an act, for surely no one is this real? My objection makes me a rebel who must be educated in the etiquette of conformity. I must keep my head bowed low, be mediocre and not draw attention to myself. Dumb down so I can slip through the cracks and land amongst the dregs of society that you are happy to ignore so long as they donâÃÂÃÂt threaten your blissful ignorance. If I am not too young, I am too old. If I abstain from drink, drugs, fornication and other legally permissible stimulation, I need to live a little and stop being so uptight. If I indulge, I have dependency issues and problems with self-control. If I am too black, I am an activist, if I am too white I am an oppressor. Where amongst your unspoken rules can I possibly fit in? Where amongst you do I belong? IâÃÂÃÂll tell you, I am all of your stereotypes, every last one of them. They are my cover, my disguise - they keep you guessing. You never boxed me, I boxed you, kept you caught up in my femininity then by my lack of it. Do you think I was born a young black female by accident or chance? I chose it. I chose to be the one you deem weak, so you would never see me coming. I am known as Zauba-ah The desert sandstorm, pray that you never feel my wrath.
