I am

 

here to change the narrative of a culture. To feed the cultural soul of the eyes that race along this black history column. Welcome to our story.

the person with skin kissed by brown descent.

a silent stroke among others on a canvas embodying minority, who always have to prove our worth.

the black token for universities to claim diversity, when I’m really just trying to make it.

a first-generation student who has been taught my entire life that black history month is nothing but slavery, north stars and an occasional reference to Dr. King.

the unbothered hair flip when they say

“why should they get their own month?”

the steam that rises off the fresh sweet cornbread and sweet yams as they cool on a kitchen counter.

the sparkle of hope in a young black boy’s eyes in the projects as he watches his favorite black NBA star on the tv screen.

the dark-skinned, light-skinned stereotype that divides an entire social construct defined as the “black community.”

an awkward pause in a conversation when I am identified as ‘white’ because I simply appreciate another culture other than my own.

the gyrating of hips to old school R&B jams at my auntie’s Sunday barbecues.

huffing and puffing to uphold a “angry black woman” stigma that my name and skin won’t allow me to escape from.

the inventions of brown people who have been silenced by the overtaking of centuries rich with black excellence.

the pure love and beauty that radiates from the black community at UTSA.

I am Kimiya Factory; I see the beauty of the voices silenced for far too long. In the month of February, join me in exploring a culture that deserves to be uncovered for its amazing truths in the Paisano.

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