Written for an event memorializing Martin Luther King Jr. and Coretta Scott King.
I have come to realize that hate
doesn’t always look like burning crosses and
murderous eyes, but also the cries of
those whose plights have caged them
behind telephone screens or even their
own eyes where they despise hearts that beat as
loud as their own. I have been guilty of
this as well. My body was once a well
for hurt to swell until it became
Spoiled, along with my tongue that spewed
language unfamiliar to my heart
that had been tender ever since I could
remember how to love.
Truthfully, I thought loving was easy
until First Corinthians taught me that
love is not about me, but endures all
things. This has been hard for me ‘cuz to this
day, I struggle to listen to those who
want to erase me and place me in the
corners of the forgotten. To this day
I don’t understand why compassion takes
a backseat to greed and those we trust to
lead refuse to see the intricacies in We the people.
Hate is both a burden and lonesome, yet the
room is packed to the brim. We camp out where
pride screams, yet behind every prideful being
is the fear of being conquered. So it’s not
I hate you, it’s I need you. Believe me
when I say that I need you to see that
you cannot twist me into whatever
definition you please. I am a being
with feelings and validity. Look at
me and see that I deserve to breathe the
air that you have. I deserve to wear the
audacity you dress with daily, I
deserve to undress the mess you have spoken,
the mess that has grounded itself into
the pit of my stomach. It rises when
you tell me I don’t belong, it rises
when you erase my story, it rises
when I see hate on my television
screen.
And yet, what if I told you that you were
not wrong for feeling this way? That you could
love humanity and still grapple with
the reality of hate and its
imprint on your body? That you could be
both loving and hurt, content and
unsatisfied? For centuries,
blackness has been a scarlet letter, a
diabolical, damnable trait
they’ve used to put us in the places
they’ve been running from. And yet, I have seen
Black people love in immeasurable
ways. we are alive, building communities
and raising generations, breaking cycles
and building legacies,
we make joyful noise and love daily,
our faith has never been shaken by
Bloody Sundays or the robbery of
our children’s lives, somehow, our
elders wear their skin proudly. I would dream
that we could do the same, that we wouldn’t
wake up and be burdened by the state of
the world, but would remain content with the
air that we breathe in and the choices that
we make. It’s in the every day, our
actions don’t always have to be great.
I have found peace in seeing the beauty
in controversies, I have found peace in
deciding that love was the better way,
and I know that many of us would say
that love is where we are camped out, that love
is where we have always been. And to this
I would encourage us to look within,
every heart in this room is hard in some
places. we are a mixing pot of experiences
and trauma, of identity and
longing for belonging. So this black history
month is not just a call for reflection,
but also a call to do the work so
that we won’t see each other as what we
have done or said, but who we are. May we
continue to walk this race with grace, not
just for ourselves but also for one
another.
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