Shame on You for Making Me Hide My Blackness
For a single day, I needed that sense of security
I’m Black and 6'4" every day, and I’m 210 pounds most days.
Today I awoke with the single objective. Today I would not be Black. As proud as I am and as ironic as it may be, I needed, if only for this day, to be free of the burden I wear that can often be damn near enslaving.
I woke up in the comfort of my safe bed, and I worked in the comfort of my safe home. I exercised in the comfort of my garage and cooked in the comfort of my kitchen. I ate in the comfort of my own chair. And it felt great.
Yet, every time I leave my home, I am Black — and my comfort escapes me.
When I left my house yesterday morning, for a fleeting moment I almost forgot I was Black. I wanted to go for a jog in my new neighborhood, when I realized I probably shouldn’t. Instead, I went to a local park and ran on its empty track, where I felt safe — because there was no one there I could possibly make feel unsafe. My Blackness anchored me, kept me from moving freely.
