“I don’t know if I should say this, but—” 

Then don’t. 

Please don’t. 

“shouldn’t [insert ethnic minority] take ​some responsibility for ________?” 

No— 

No one ever ignores the warning shot. 

I see how this “conversation” ends 

before it even begins: 

The trepidation in my professor’s sweaty brow,

soon replaced by resignation 

for the arguments that’ll bombard lecture 

The chocolate in my neighbor's eyes 

morphs into fiery amber 

thanks to sweet, righteous indignation. 

And me? 

I sink into my wooden chair, 

as I feel my scholarship being wasted 

every… second… he… speaks. 

Yes, him— 

donning North Face in navy blue, 

a golden Apple at his wrist, 

his sixth set of Sperry shoes, 

and a smug smirk, 

Executing every tactic in the 

“How to Play Devil’s Advocate” playbook:

in the name of discourse.

1. Make assertions without citations 

2. Assuage TAs with mild backpedaling 3. Goad dissenters with ad hominem attacks 4. Accuse others of small-minded censorship 

Oh, and he yanks at our heartstrings too by informing us his parents are getting divorced, so we can’t stay mad at him 

When he offends our delicate sensibilities

with braggadocio veiled as patriotism. 

No theories by Du Bois, no histories by

Coates, no stories by Hurston nor Morrison 

could yield his surrender,

because surrender means retraction, 

because surrender means submission, 

because surrender means invalidation. 

Entrenched in his oppression, 

ready to strike anyone who calls him 

“nativist” in lieu of “nationalist”, 

He’s already sharpened every word in his lexicon like a bayonet; his rhetoric as loaded as an AR-15. 

each weapon cracks the overton window wide open. 

Let him give his spirited defense of Social Darwinism

(though he would never call it that), 

in the name of fairness and balance, 

in the name of intellectual exercise,

I mean, who doesn’t love a vigorous debate?

I. Forest Africana 

“We’re almost done, baby.” 

Roots resisted as Mama's great hands 

tugged them together. 

Pain seared through the unmoisturized soil.

Her toothy rake combed my Cameroonian

forest of fiber and frizz. 

Blades sheared split ends. 

Her calloused hands slathered coconut oil and

bound wild kinks into some manageability. I

sighed, hoping 

four hours of toil were worth it.

II. Seasonal Clearing 

“Aye— hold still.” 

I couldn’t help it. My fingers gripped 

the edges of the carpet. 

Not even Hannah Montana could distract me from Mama detangling knotty vines. 

Every three months, she plants 

new, off-black trees— Brazil 

I think they’re from. 

But first, the old ones must come down. 

Let my forest floor breathe raw. 

Another yank from Mama’s rake had me squealing. 

III. Slash and Burn 

“Tell me when it hurts.” 

No imported plants this time. 

Instead, Mama tried a new fertilizer— “perm” I

think it’s called. The white paste burnt like hell,

more than any rake-pulling ever could. 

My follicles were scorched and screaming.

But I wanted my spirals to stand 

as straight as mighty oaks. 

To look like the stems my friends grew. 

To be almost normal. 

IV. Deforestation 

The fertilizer wore off. My tresses were 

taking too long to grow. Nappy leaves kept

breaking off. Nine year-old me felt 

it was time to clear the land. Stealing Mama’s blades,

I scavenged the forest myself. 

Kinks piled up in a plastic bag, as I chopped

vines and blossoms alike. 

I thought it was a masterpiece. Mama disagreed.

We went to the salon to plant new trees. 

V. Reforestation 

“Turn your head.” 

I caught Big Sis’s eyes in the mirror as she assessed

the damage of my neglect. 

Too much of herself in me, I guess. 

She too couldn’t help but compare hers to the

golden and ginger flora in ​Teen Vogue. Sis took

the worst turn with Mama’s blades, but her

forest grew back eventually. 

I still wonder what would’ve happened

if we both left our forests untouched. 

Big Sis gave me some reassurance: 

Ours are the only ones that grow toward the sun.