To LeBron And Black Boys Who Hate Where They From

It’s 7th grade in the 90s, and I don’t care what nobody say, 7th grade in the 90s was lit even if you were a short and fat and ugly Black boy from Ocean Avenue. I have a tapered fade that’s too low on the sides. The exposed scalp has razor bumps raised in the back of a tragic bowl cut.

I live in a 1-bedroom apartment and it’s my birthday during my first year at prep school. The white kids get a car service home while I only hear the crackle of my concierge if the train gets stuck between Times Square and 72nd Street.

Not to say I’m broken, but I believe, deep down, I’m not worth much if I don’t go to this school and get these grades — which by this time are starting to slip.

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