Whoopi Goldberg Q2 (alias) - Black History Month Contribution 2025

I step onto the bus, fare in hand,  

but the driver’s glare is cold, unplanned.  

“No room,” he says, though space is wide,  

the doors slam shut—my pride denied.  

I walk these streets, but not with ease,  

bags pulled close, their eyes that freeze.  

One step near, they hold their breath,  

As though my presence is a threat.  

In school, my hoodie’s yanked too tight, a brown boy.

dragged like dirt, as though he’s not right.  

A twelve-year-old against the floor,  

his body scraping, teachers ignore.  

And this is the NMS, the school we represent? 

I don’t think Madiba would be proud,

That black students are screeching for help,

Yet aren’t heard out.

Zero racism, they swear—except  

for our skin, we pay the debt.  

How can it be that majority of the staff we trust 

Are the teachers that look like us? 

Twice the effort, half the prize,  

still, they watch us, narrowed eyes.  

A sea of white, I stand alone,  

in school, in streets—nowhere home.  

We dress with sway, move with pride,  

but they say, "Too ghetto," "Too much stride."  

"Too street," "Too loud," "Too bold," they say,  

yet our style is theirs to take away.  

They love our music, our talk, our tone,  

but not the Blackness we call our own.  

Our hair is thick, coiled, alive,  

not something easy to just revive.  

We can’t wake up and just be set,  

our curls need care, our roots need sweat.  

A durag keeps the cornrows in place,  

a bonnet shields our strands with grace.  

Yet when we wear them, we’re told, “Not here,”  

like our culture is something to fear.  

A classmate sits, his durag tight,  

a teacher smirks, laughs in spite.  

"Zieh mal dein Hut aus," she sneers,  

the class erupts, his shame appears.  

Our culture, a joke, a thing to shame,  

but when they steal it, they change the name.  

Yet here, we break our tongues in vain,  

learn the language, bear the strain.  

Still, on the train, their fingers curl,  

bags pulled close like we might hurl  

ourselves into a crime unseen,  

just skin, just history, just routine

Continually,

We shape ourselves to fit their land,  

yet still, they don’t extend a hand.  

White South Africans speak Zulu with pride,  

White Ghanaians speak twi and, stand side by side.  

They walk through Africa, heads held high,  

their German untouched, their accents fly.  

But here, we break our tongues in vain,  

learn the language, bear the strain.  

And when police pull over our kin,  

our mothers, our fathers, our Black skin,  

"Ach komm, probier’s mal auf Deutsch," they say,  

as if our struggle is just a play.  

They don’t know it’s a spit in our face,  

like all our effort holds no place.  

They tell us, “School is not for you,”  

“You won’t make it, nothing new.”  

“You’re lazy, dumb, a waste of space,”  

a monkey joke, a shattered face.  

And when they laugh, the teachers stay  

silent, blind—look away.  

We sit apart though grades align,  

the mixed girl there, I sit behind.  

“You both have a 2,” the teacher claims,  

but separation still remains.  

They switch our names, and think it’s fine

Wandering the halls, violating what’s mine

A black girls name, a brown girls name, a mixed boys name 

They say in vain.

They switch our names, and think it’s fine  

Degrading the value of the name my parents gave,  

The name I call mine, 

the one I’ll always claim.

Still they don’t see a difference, we’re “just “the same” 

On the train, a woman’s grip  

tightens fast upon her zip.  

Her bag, her fear, her thin disguise,  

as if my hands hold her demise.  

In stores, I browse—but eyes stay sharp,  

guards behind each shopping cart.  

And still, we smile, we show our face,  

dragged through school, yet run the race.  

"Du siehst aus, als hättest du keine Laune,"  

but tell me, how do I pretend,  

when every day, I must defend  

my right to sit, my right to be,  

my right to breathe in Germany?  

After tenth, our numbers shrink,  

one by one, we start to sink.  

Once again it happens.

year after year,

I begin to think is this system something I should fear?

And again. after tenth, the numbers fade,  

fewer Black names in Abitur’s grade. 

Not from will, nor from drive,  

but from the weight we must survive.  

The system’s hands pull tight, too tight,  

and our dreams dissolve step by step into the night.  

This is the truth of Black in white,  

of German sun, yet endless night.  

A home that whispers, not quite mine,  

a fight for space, for breath, for time.  

And once again, we wake, we rise, we stand,  

with weary soul, with trembling hand.  

A home that whispers, not quite ours,  

a fight for space, for breath, for hours.  

To be Black here is to be strong,  

to face the hate, to prove them wrong.