And a tear,
Sprouted from her eye and sprinted down her face,
At the same pace that hope was being drained from her body.
A tear,
Dense with the the echo of those people telling her what she couldn’t do.
Full of the failures from the times she tried anyway.
Overflowing with the hurt she felt when she found her arms burning from reaching out to people who refused to grab her hand—Through
Everything, she’d kept her head so high.
But soul deep inside her true feeling she would hide.
Yes, this young girl felt like she’d never fit in.
All because of the amount of melanin she had in her skin.
You see, black to her was the color of the inside of the house when her mom didn’t have enough money to pay the bill to keep the lights on,
Black. Was the color of the sky when a dangerous storm was coming and away from it was the safest place to be.
Black. Was the color worn at funerals when deep sadness thickened the air and the truth of loss threatened to break down even the strongest of individuals.
Because she was black she felt like she couldn’t follow her dreams.
Around her wrist and ankles, she saw the heaviest of chains.
Chiseled by her experiences and bound by all she’d seen.
The roots of distaste were planted so deeply. The only thing I could bring myself to do was to
Make an introduction so I asked this young girl, have you ever met you?
And have you so quickly forgotten all that you’ve gone through?
Like those times when trusting someone decided to fire back.
Leaving you in pieces and you had to lease some happiness until you got yours back.
Or those moments when you needed someone in your future but had to leave them in your past.
Or those instants when on bended knee you prayed to God the struggle wouldn’t last,
Oh yes, you’re black and you’re so strong.
And what about that culture that you can call your own?
Redefined through the ages, insanely contagious. I know you see them trying to clone.
It’s because your black was the beauty of the stary nighttime sky when Harriet Tubman risked her life to make sure we could be in this room tonight.
Oh yes, your black is the passion of Rosa Parks to sit down, and the courage to face the consequences, an action so very profound.
Young girl, your black, is the love of the peaceful protests of MLK because mediocre treatment wasn’t good enough and it was time to pave a new way.
If you want you lift someone up, sometimes you first have to come down.
Understand their hurts, worries, fears in order to turn that world around.
Know that every-time you define your black, in part, you help to define theirs too.
But time is up. We need change now,
And it has to start with you.