An American in a Foreign Land

America. It’s unrecognizable to me. A land that was built on the backs of my ancestors. A land that holds a history deeper than the roots of an oak tree on an old southern plantation has taken a mudslide turn. A turn that leaves me cautious and afraid for this country and everyone who walks upon it. A turn that leaves me questioning how the hell did we end up here?
As an African American woman, I never imagined as a child that the current state of chaos that America is in would ever exist. I never thought about what someone would call me because I’m beautifully housed in a skin tone not like theirs. I never had to keep a watchful eye in places I found myself in out of fear that I would be attacked, wrongly accused, or even worse — killed because I’m just there minding my black business.
No, I don’t recognize America anymore.
What I know for sure is that I have a God given right to live not only as a woman, but as a proud African American because that’s who He created me to be. I have the right to live without the fear of that right being violently stripped from me, but that fear looms quietly with a strong towering presence as if it wants me to know it’s there. As if it wants me to know it’s alive and ready to tighten its stronghold like a noose should I fight to break free from its grip.
If you watch the news or even glance at social media today, it’s hard to escape the high level pitch of every post vying for your attention down your feed, voicing their concerns over what transpired over the last 24 hours. This noise and the level of racism taking place is on a heavy rotation type of vibe. Continuous, never ending . It hits me like a ton of bricks, the weight and worry we have to carry for being black in America.
The open expression of racism these days is heartbreaking. Of course, racism always existed, but not at such an alarming rate. Everywhere you look, you are bound to see or hear about something that was said or done to someone who was accused for just breathing in the air that we all share. I can’t seem to wrap my head around how people — Americans just like me, who live in the land of the free, feel it’s their right to threaten someone who has every right just like they do to walk down a street, stand in front of a convenience store, ride the subway, or sit in their car and eat their lunch undisturbed without the police being called to “check it out.” Is the color of our skin that much of a threat that we can’t enjoy a damn sandwich in peace?
No, I don’t recognize America anymore. None of it is familiar to me.
I ask myself where those who are expelling racism from their pores like bad alcohol after a night of binge drinking have been hiding. As if they are the walking dead, bold enough to come out of the dark and into the light because they somehow feel invincible now. Believing that the hate they’re living with is justified because of their skin color. The entitlement they feel in being protected from the consequences of their actions is a deranged illusion brought on by the one who was given the reigns to run this country. I’ve come to realize their hate comes from a place of misunderstanding about who we are and their fear of what we’re capable of building and leaving here as a legacy. A legacy that will forever be a constant reminder that our place here has meaning and depth, power and prominence, wealth and magnificent wonders.
The lives of those that were cut short while living black, proves that there is extensive work to be done. The type of work that goes below the surface of who someone is. Below the hate to find the root as to why it was planted in the first place. All hate comes from somewhere. It has to be passed down and ingrained in someone’s DNA in order for it to rise to the surface and manifest as racism. All roots can be plucked, but it has to be willing to be set free. Set free from the mental and emotional cages they blindly place themselves in. They choose to remain stuck in those cages — closed minded out of fear, not knowing or understanding who we are not. What they fail to realize is they are in fact hurting themselves. Hurting themselves from experiencing the bliss of the blessing of unity. But I get it, hurt people…hurt people and so the cycle continues until it prayerfully ends.
No, I don’t recognize America anymore. None of it is familiar to me. No, none of it.
Where will we be a month from now, a year from now, a decade from now…who knows? Will America even be known as America or will it be known as a foreign land where Americans inhabit and just fight everyone to survive? Or will there be a miracle where we all can live in peace, break bread together, laugh together, and love one another for who we were created to be — beautiful, unique brothers and sisters, no matter the race, background, or creed? As I reflect on the possibility of what can be, the reality surfaces that the miracle I pray for seems a bit far off. It seems like a joke without a punch line, a house without occupants, a heart without love. But as long as we have hope — we surely can cope, believe and move forward in faith waiting on that day for America to become familiar once more.
