When They See Us

​Branded by the skin I was born in, there is no need for a heated metal plate to burn me. When they see me, they will place me on a stake and set fire to every part of my body without a second thought to my innocence. The blacker the berry, the more poisonous it must look for me to be condemned to a life of rejection and labeled as a threat for my only crime of being born my mother’s and father’s child.

 
As I watch little white girls and white boys play, I wonder how often they’ve been marked hazardous for having fun; I wonder how many times a white kid in a hoodie has tasted the fresh dirt of a cemetery plot before his 18th birthday for being able to fit a description; I wonder how frequent, if even at all, being white has made them a danger to their own existence. What a privilege it must be to live without the thought of death taking you as a consequence to what life gave you.

My wounds are still oozing from lashes that met my back over 100 years ago. When I cry of pain, confused looks come from all directions. Some of these gawks are delivered by messengers who have yet to realize that a wound that is never properly treated will never heal but instead will become susceptible to an infection with the power to gradually shut down the whole body. The rest of the crowd only seems puzzled because although they’ve been aware of my condition for some time now, they are dumbfounded by my persistence to make them care.

Coming face to face with ignorance has become somewhat of a daily routine for me. I greet bigotry every morning at breakfast as I become more acquainted with the current leader of our country being introduced by a headline that says breaking news while still managing to approach me with an agonizing familiarity.

​Like the enlightening and awakening of so many individuals all around the world, every other day, I hear a knock at the door. Opening the package left on the porch with caution every time, I still never fail to leap back in awe when hope springs out of the box. Hope proceeds to make promises of better days if I can continue to give it forgiveness and patience.

Hope comes in all colors, ethnicities, genders, sexual orientations, abilities, disabilities, sizes, and religions. It asks me to release the suffering hidden in my fist and to take hold of its hand. Hope whispers to me that it once used to go by the name pain until someone came to offer its memories a different route to take. It reveals to me a plan that leads me to the better days promised, with no intention of erasing the roads and obstacles on the map we must travel over, even after we cross them.