At the corner bodega, I’m one of those Black Girls who the Middle Eastern owner must watch from his elevated podium behind the bullet-proof glass. On the subway, I’m a Black Girl on WIC who can give Russian ladies directions to the welfare office. In the taxi, I’m the Black Girl the Mexican driver tries to deliver to the Projects towering behind my co-op.
I’m not That Kind of Black Girl. But even if I were, I’d like you to stop assuming you know me.