Miss America

Miss America,

I do not know you. I have spent my formative years, hell, all of my years living in you, but not living with you. I did not live with you, Miss America, I did not live alongside you, I was not your partner. Your forefathers are not my forefathers. Your forefathers deprived me of my forefathers. I have no forefathers and you Miss America, are not my mother. You are a glorified slave driver, Miss America. Yet, you don’t even see it. I pity you, Miss America, I pity who you are and, especially, how blind you’ve become to it. I can’t help but pity you. Even as you whip at me and shoot me and stab me and force me onto the streets and give me drugs and destroy my families and kill me, I must pity you.

I think it’s fair to say that many African-Americans feel somewhat alien, to America. Outside of her sprawling metropolises America is very different. Under her gilded surface you have the real America. The rural America. The sleepy quiet and sundown town America. I do not rail against this America. I do not rail against those not of my skin, but of my class. Rather, I rail against Miss America as a whole.

We are alien there, and they would be alien here. We do not know each other, nor could we ever understand each other, for America needs us not to. She needs us to not know each other. To not understand each other. She needs us to be divided and alien so we do not realize we have all been wronged. We have all been taken advantage of.

Miss America has succeeded, sadly. I feel alien in the real America, and the real America feels alien once they find their way into her gilded cities and towering streets. It is your fault, Miss America. You have not broken me. You have not broken any of us individually. But you have broken the whole that we were. You have divided the class. You have won, for now, Miss America.

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