I was born in 1998, where most of my life was captured through Kodak cameras and goo’s and ga’s.

I was raised in the 2000s, where black girls were getting their hair pressed by hot combs that smelled like burning flesh when they touched our scalps.

Where little black boys raced barefoot in the middle of the street at night under the street lights -- even though their Mamas told them to be in the house before then -- to see who would become the next Jesse Owens or Reggie Bush.

We became an age separated from our ancestors and predecessors because we no longer have chains bonded to our feet and necks.

But, don’t we still?

The 19^th and 20^th century welcomed Us with our great-great-great grandparents dangling from trees with nooses made of our own blood wrung around our silk, brown necks.

“Welcome to the South!”

Yet, here we are in the 21st century, with black bodies piled higher than Mt. Everest.

It was only some years ago We were being burned at the stake.

Confederate heroes couldn’t tell the cinder of our skin floating in the southern breeze from the ashes of the wood they set ablaze under our feet.

It was only some years ago I wanted to bathe in a tub full of bleach so my skin could appear like my oppressor, in hopes I didn’t suffer the same fate.

I yearned porcelain, translucent skin and beach, sand-colored locks.

Like my Barbie dolls.

But I was cursed with mud-dirt flesh and hair like a bristle pad.

Even whilst being scorched alive, some of Them were grateful to not have to endure the burden of being a Nig-

Yeah you get it.

Nothing has changed, but the sublimity of our conditions by placing a veil of deceit over our already glassed eyes.

Now we wander aimlessly, bumping into each other, searching for something that has been lost to us for generations.

“Welcome Black Millennials” to the 21st century.