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Say it Loud, I am Black and I am Proud

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Introduction

´╗┐SAY IT LOUD, I AM BLACK, AND I AM PROUD I was so tired, even attempting to keep my eyes open was a struggle. My whole body was drunk with fatigue after a hard day?s work, constantly staring at a computer screen and typing away as if in a solemn trance. My father, adoptive father really, is a drug dealer. I am his physically and mentally abused daughter ? Maya ? or the brown skinned girl who works almost 19 hours everyday recording all the sales and is proud of her descent. My bony hands, their blood frozen by the bitter winter frost were clutching the steering wheel like a helpless man gripping the edge of a cliff, desperately holding on picturing his fate. My brain wanted to give in, to remain in the lapses of sleep that I kept drifting in and out of. I took a fleeting look outside, the weather beaten road looking everlasting. The endless rows of mud splashed dense hedges that thrive with life in the spring but appear lifeless with their menacing razor-sharp thorns in the harsh winters. ...read more.

Middle

I reached to the handle and shifted out the car, my joints squeaking like an old geriatric patient climbing out of a hospital bed for the first time. A smell of leaked oil filled the atmosphere. I ambled to the front of the car and hoisted up the hefty metal bonnet. A torrent of white steam condensing, warmly greeted me. My engine had burst. Now it was absolutely inevitable that I was ever going to get this piece of junk to start again. I was stranded, but my main problem was that I lacked a cell phone. But I had nobody to call for help anyway. I hobbled to the rear of the car and opened the boot, the ford emblem glistening in the radiant moonlight. I scrambled for a flashlight and for my repair kit, but to my despair the repair kit was sparse. ?Jesus Christ?, I exclaimed to myself. I grabbed for my packet of cigarettes and took out my lighter out of my back pocket of my shabby jeans. ...read more.

Conclusion

I am fully aware of my heritage and the history of my race in the U.S. (the slavery and civil rights). And as a matter of fact, it makes me proud of who I am, and the cultured land that I come from. My skin color is part of me but it doesn't define me. In my own mind, I am a regular girl who missed the wonderful childhood she deserved. ? That did it, I think. All my life, I longed for him to love me, and maybe be happy to see me smile. But I seemed to have failed miserably. I felt like an ant clinging onto the windshield of her adoptive father?s life in a hope for even the smallest amount of affection. But the wipers had finally been successful in flicking me off. There was beauty in every stride of his. I think I found myself almost smiling at his sinister pride. That one shot seemed to give a strange liberating feeling. The next thing I remember was being soar, barely able to walk, burred vision, then an excruciating pain somewhere in the back of my head. Then everything went black. ...read more.

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