Everyone belongs to many different communities and/or groups defined by (among other things) shared geography, religion, ethnicity, income, cuisine, interest, race, ideology, or intellectual heritage. Choose one of the communities to which you belong, and describe that community and your place within it.
I belong to the twenty-inch weaves and Luis Vuitton bags. I belong to the girls that walk down the street with crop tops, leggings and Ugg boots, and to the boys who wear True Religion jeans and the newest Jordan's; this is where I belong, my race. I look around and feel ashamed by what my people have become. They've become obsessed with name-brand clothing, straight hair, and money, but they haven't looked at the big picture: the future. They're stuck in what's happening right now. Young boys are getting arrested everyday, and young girls are getting pregnant. I go to the store and see girls my age, sometimes younger or a year older, who already has a child. I see the older generation shaking their heads at us, expecting us to fail and become nothing. I walk around with my younger cousin in the store and people think that I'm her mother. I'm bound to fail according to the older generation, especially the older, Caucasian generation. I worry everyday for my younger brother because I have to make sure that he didn't get snatched off the street by a police officer accusing him of what he didn't do. And I also have to worry about myself, the way I dress is the way people will treat me. My people walk around with loud rap music, sagging pants, long weaves, stiletto nails, and bad English. People are shocked at the way I speak and handle myself, but only because they're used to what they see on a regular bases. I'm pressured to get a weave, to go buy revealing clothing, twelve-inch heels, and a tight dress because that is what my race wants me to be. I belong to my race. I belong to the broken, African-American race.
I belong to the twenty-inch weaves and Luis Vuitton bags. I belong to the girls that walk down the street with crop tops, leggings and Ugg boots, and to the boys who wear True Religion jeans and the newest Jordan's; this is where I belong, my race. I look around and feel ashamed by what my people have become. They've become obsessed with name-brand clothing, straight hair, and money, but they haven't looked at the big picture: the future. They're stuck in what's happening right now. Young boys are getting arrested everyday, and young girls are getting pregnant. I go to the store and see girls my age, sometimes younger or a year older, who already has a child. I see the older generation shaking their heads at us, expecting us to fail and become nothing. I walk around with my younger cousin in the store and people think that I'm her mother. I'm bound to fail according to the older generation, especially the older, Caucasian generation. I worry everyday for my younger brother because I have to make sure that he didn't get snatched off the street by a police officer accusing him of what he didn't do. And I also have to worry about myself, the way I dress is the way people will treat me. My people walk around with loud rap music, sagging pants, long weaves, stiletto nails, and bad English. People are shocked at the way I speak and handle myself, but only because they're used to what they see on a regular bases. I'm pressured to get a weave, to go buy revealing clothing, twelve-inch heels, and a tight dress because that is what my race wants me to be. I belong to my race. I belong to the broken, African-American race.