“Oreo”

By Danielle Davis

Scrape away the skin on my limbs and...what do you see? 

Veins tangled against a milk-white marrow? 

Organs humming neatly in their places? 

A black hole, splintered and gaping, 

a shrewd muscle clinging to its bone? 

Do you see the gold shelled beneath my obsidian skin? 

The blood, beckoned out over centuries by the lash of a whip?  

The blood, alloyed with the bitter salt of the Atlantic. 

The blood, for which the fruit of America thirsts. 

Am I worthy of such history? 

Or is my heart bleached dry, 

all titanium dioxide and syrup and oil? 

And how is my face? 

Are my lips akin to the baobab tree, 

plump and bursting with life? 

Is my smile made of ivory? 

Or is it sweet, milkless, false? 

Is my color nothing more 

than a thin dusting of chocolate,

eaten quickly and concealed, 

when the moment demands? 

And what is this reflection in the mirror? 

Does my spine mimic the curve of the Swahili coast? 

Does it straighten when it’s supposed to? Does it duck and bend to the drums? Who am I to speak for that richest, blackest soil? 

Who am I? 

A descendant of those noble ghosts or a player in a mask?

And what is this thing 

you have reduced me to? 

This thing that crumbles on the tongue 

and dissolves down the throat? 

What is this sweetened stomach ache 

that fills my waking moments?

Will it ever go away? 

Is this the burden of my race? 

And when will I realize 

that these questions have no answers? 

That there is no ideal assortment 

with which to organize 

my insides? 

That the assortment was only an excuse 

to fit a noose around my throat? 

That the strength lies in the clay 

and not the mold? 

About the Poem: Growing up as a black girl in a predominantly white suburb, I have always struggled with feeling like an “oreo,” or a person who is black on the outside but white on the inside. In this poem, I grapple with the feelings that I face every morning when looking in the mirror, wondering if I measure up to the expectations of my race. However, I have come to realize that there is no one way to be a black person, and that the very notion that there is one way is oppressive, reliant on stereotypes. This poem is dedicated to all the young black people who feel like they don’t fit into the “mold” because they don’t listen to rap music, enjoy soul food, “talk” like a black person (or don’t naturally take to any other number of things associated with the race). I hope they recognize that their experiences are valid and more important than ever.