When I was five, I realized that I didn’t want to be black anymore.
Let me break that down for you.
At the tender age of five I knew that black people were not loved, but hated. Black people were the equivalent to furniture- to animals. Black people were always the aggressors. Black people were always associated with violence, hatred, and anger.
And it took me years to love my skin, while watching my sisters and brothers die for innocent crimes. Locked up, for crimes they didn’t commit. Our words of outrage being ignored. People have not listening to what we have been yelling ever since my great-great-great-grandmother was a child.
You don’t know how it feels to grow up, with your parents teaching you how to respond to law enforcement when you are approached. Not letting you leave to go hang out with friends until the speech was memorized without a single stutter and with complete eye contact.
You don’t know how scared I was of the world at five. I knew that a group of people already hated me, and I didn’t do nothing wrong.
That my life may end, due to a hate crime.
But then, people started to turned around.
For years we have been yelling for people to turn around and listen- and it happened at the death of an innocent black man.
I’m not happy that another life was lost in order to be the catalyst of a movement, but I am happy that people are finally noticing that black people have been treated this way.
Thank you to everyone who has shown their support. It’ll take time for the walls of racism to finally be broken down, but it’s a start.
I’m sure my five year old self would be very happy.