Ninja Me

When I was five, I was a skate ninja. The local park, with infinite sparkling and burning concrete, was my kingdom. Sliding over curbs and puffing out air until heavy lungs burned. I loved it. One day, a less graceful non-skate ninja of a boy fell in front of me. Hard. I quickly slid over with an open hand. But it was a caramel tinted hand. And his rosy cheeks burned, “Don’t touch me.” I withdrew my hand breathlessly. "N*gger," he spat into my confusion. You see I was a ninja. Not whatever terrible thing a “n*gger” must be. Later on, with eyes shining like damp soil my mom told me what it was. And what we were not. Planting a deep understanding in me. To some, I would never be just a ninja.