But I am not tragically colored. There is no great sorrow dammed up in my soul, nor lurking behind my eyes. I do not mind at all. I do not belong to the sobbing school of Negrohood who hold that nature somehow has given them a lowdown dirty deal and whose feelings are all hurt about it. Even in the helter-skelter skirmish that is my life, I have seen that the world is to the strong regardless of a little pigmentation more or less. No, I do not weep at the world—I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife.
from How It Feels to Be Colored Me
a story: In 11th grade, my english teacher ms. simmons
forcedstrongly suggested i enter a county-wide recitation competition and represent my school. she picked up my fascination with zora early on and gave me a print out of “how it feels…”. she highlighted a portion for me to remember for the competition but i committed the entire piece to memory. you read something enough times, you feel it putting words into the empty spaces on your tongue, you almost feel like you’re gonna burst because it fills you up, it is so true and so exact, eventually it becomes a part of you. at the competition, i felt drunk. i don’t remember anything about the space or who was in it. i just remember introducing the piece and i remember it coming out like a roar. and i remember nodding at the end because i had nothing left to say, not even thank you, and feeling a little frightened, a little light-headed. i won the competition. i think i won money, which i never claimed.
