Uppity Negro

I decided to take a short trip to the flea market around the corner today to see if there was anything I wanted (I was actually looking for a pair of sweats, but whatever). So as I was walking through the flea market, the first thing that hit me was the smell. Straight up, that place stunk. Then as I was walking around, looking at stuff, the little voice inside my head kept getting louder saying, "WTF are you doing here?"

I hadn't really been shopping at the flea market since around my freshman year in college. And in high school, the swap meet might as well have been the mall for ya boy. I remember taking whatever money I earned from my lame-a$$ job at Baskins-Robbins to the swap meet to pick up some more "Cali hood negro" uniforms: white tees, dickies, and house shoes. My mom hated when I wore that stuff, but you couldn't tell my wannabe Snoop-a$$ nuthin.

When I left the market (with nothing) I was thinking to myself, am I a bourgeoisie ni@@a? Am I Bryant Gumble negro? Naw, I'm just growing up. XXL long white tees ain't it for me no more. I like my clothes a little more fitted now (skinny jeans have not been, are not, and never will be it for me tho). I like for a chick to be able to look at me and tell I work out. My style ain't European, but it ain't thug neither. It's me. Ya dig?