Black means beauty. It means big, brown eyes, bright and inquisitive, and full little lips pulled into a smile, and little fingers, reaching out for life, for hope, for you, for me, for the ball they’re playing with, the ice cream cone they’re wanting, for the exam their teacher is handing back, for their spouse, for the baby they just brought into this world, for their grandchild who is running up the stairs, eager to see them, for the cane leaning against the nightstand beside their bed. For wisdom, for knowledge, for fun, for sadness, for truth, for love, for justice. Reaching.
We’re always reaching. For hope. For life.
We shouldn’t have to reach for life.
We’re born with life. We’re given life. And yet we have to fight every day to hold on to that; that most basic of things: the right to let our lungs fill and empty of oxygen. Why?
Melanin. We have melanin. We have melanin that makes our skin brown, from a light cream to the darkest of browns, so rich it almost looks plum.
And it’s not fair. It kills me. It kills me that because of our skin color and features—because of our differences—we have to suffer. Our ancestors fought, and we’re still fighting. Our message is simple. What we want is simple. And yet, hundreds of years later, you still don’t get it. Even now, with Black people, young and old, being killed because white folks don’t care whether or not we die, you still don’t get it.
And iIt kills me that my beautiful little niece, only ten years old and passionate about chemistry and ballet and tennis and piano like me, will be viewed as a whore, just because she has brown skin to go with what will soon be curves.
It kills me that my other niece, only six, with a vocabulary more expanded than a Harvard grad student’s, will be seen as simple, will be given less than she deserves with no apologies. Just because she’s brown.
It kills me that my oldest nephew, only a few years younger than I, will be viewed as criminal when he’s done nothing wrong. It kills me that people will sit back in their smugness when they find out he had a baby as a teenager, because that’s what Black boys are meant to do. But fuck that. He’s not a boy. He’s a man. It kills me that people will never reognize or acknowledge that he married that girl. That he was and still is madly in love with her. That he takes care of his baby, and is a better father than most middle aged middle class men I have seen in my lifetime.
It kills me that the wonderful, strong, amazing, loving, intelligent Black individuals in my family and friends will be erased and replaced by fuzzy, messy silhouettes of who people think they’re supposed to be because of their skin, and it kills me that the precious Black babies in our family will grow up to meet the same fate.
It kills me to realize that people do that to me now. That I’m not a student at a quality private college with a job, a creative spirit, full of love and passion. That I’m not a young queer lady who isn’t sure what she wants to do with her life, who squeals over boys, who is afraid to come out, who hates math, but loves chemistry and biology, who wants to learn to sew but hasn’t the patience, yet can sit at a piano for 10 hours straight without realizing it. I’m not a lightweight who will be on the floor after three shots. I’m not giggly and a jokester who loves to make people laugh, and who feels her best when the people around her are smiling, but isn’t afraid to hurt their feelings when it comes to breaking out the truth about race. I’m not someone who loves their family to death, who would risk getting killed in a fight because someone dared to even look at her mother funny, or dared hurt—physically or emotionally—the babies in her family. I’m not a girl from a mixed family. I’m not Cherokee. I’m not Puerto Rican. I’m not Samoan. I’m not Tahitian.
I’m just a nigger.
I’m a thief. I’ve probably gotten pregnant. I probably have a kid, and if I do, I’m a single mom. I’m on welfare. I’m poor. I smack my lips. I shuck and jive. I’m sassy. I’m angry. I’m threatening, all 126 pounds of me. I might have gotten shot once. I speak in Ebonics, and won’t be what white folk deem to be “articulate.” If I’m what white folk deem to be “intelligent,” it’ll be a surprise. SURPRISE! I don’t live in the neighborhood I walk around in. I prolly smoke pot. I prolly do drugs. I prolly have exchanged sexual favors for money at least once in my life, and when I did, it was prolly with a man triple my age, and he’s prolly the man who got me pregnant and then left my undesirable, ugly Black ass. I’m loud, even tho I’m talking quieter than the white folks behind me. I’m someone to be afraid of.
Just a nigger.
Brown skin means you can’t do shit without someone thinking you’re a criminal. You can’t do shit without someone thinking you’re doing something wrong. You’re suspicious when you have brown skin.
I’m suspicious. My mom, the accountant, is suspicious. My dad, the electrical engineer and Reverend, is suspicious.
My sister, the scholar, is suspicious. My brother, who went to jail because his friends tricked him into a crime scene, is suspicious. My bro in law, an engineer, is suspicious.
My nieces and nephews aren’t suspicious yet. But they will be.
And then what? Then what will happen? What will happen to them, because y’all white people don’t get it? It’s so simple yet y’all don’t get it. Don’t ask me “what”. I won’t tell you what. We’ve been spelling it out for you for over 400 years and if you don’t get it by now, then that’s your own fault, and we are under no obligation to fix your bullshit. But what will become of my nieces and nephews and cousins? What will become of my mom, my dad, my siblings, my friends? What will become of the babies in my family, my precious babies, because you don’t get it? I don’t know. But I do know one thing: They will not hurt because of it. Never fought a day in my life, but there ain’t no one in this world threatening enough to keep me from fighting if I have to, to keep the people I love alive.
Because I will not
Will Not
Will NOT
WILL NOT
WILL NOT let them die because someone who doesn’t know them decided to mentally construct their characters and was ignorant enough to think their know-nothing opinion was actually true.
I will die, myself, before I let someone think of laying a hand on them, and I will take that person’s ass with me.
