too heavy a load

my mom said he wasn’t one of the good ones
cus his skin wasn’t light enough cus his “good” hair
wasn’t good enough cus how would I ever get a comb
through our child’s nappy hair

but we’re only in 5th grade
& we just wanna hold hands

my mom said he wasn’t one of the good ones,
assured me I could catch his blackness like a bad
cold, one she said wasn’t just about good or bad hair,
but about avoiding our neighbors’ & friends’ nasty stares

but we’re only in 5th grade
& we just wanna hold hands

she said he couldn’t be one of the good ones
cus he stepped to people & put them in their place—his best
quality if you asked me & he stood his ground, demanding
respect even at ten—& again I thought: His. Best. Quality.

but we’re only in 5th grade
& we just wanna hold hands

my mom said, he’d be one of the “good” ones if he learned
to speak only when spoken to or spoke properly which meant
he’d have to talk white & she repeated that I’d gain nothing
from a kid like him with skin not quite light enough & “good” hair
not quite good enough, a boy whose friendship would usher in a lifetime
of struggle of nappy hair, nasty stares, and utter shame & despair

but we’re just kids in 5th grade
who just wanna hold hands

then my mom told me the way forward for our people,
our white people, our brown people & even our black
Cuban people was to avoid all that was black & brown
in the name of advancing the race

& I remember wishing for a world where we were ALL good ones
with our whiteness, blackness, brownness—wishing for a house of mirrors
so mom could see & reject the ugliness inside & I remember going to school
the next day & holding his not-good-enough hand, refusing to carry mom’s
heavy luggage of hatred, self-loathing & shame