Don’t tell me you don’t see color.

When you say you don’t see color, it lets me know you’re CONSCIOUSLY choosing to ignore my history. You’re saying “it’s okay” to not recognize the politics it took for me to wear my natural hair and stand in uniform for my country, at the same damn time. If you don’t see color, you don’t see me… I stand with my Afro picked out, one hand in the air, bobbing my head to the beat as my stride unknowingly matches the rhythm. I am black! Look at me. From my thick,luscious, jet black, kinky curl to my full-bodied Ebonics, I am black! My skin is dark, I am drowning in melanin. My pigmentation is perfectly perfect. So much so, the sun doesn’t even try to darken my hide. I’m a Beautiful, Lyrical, Artistic, California Kindred. Black. We are a Brotherhood Lacking Accurate Colored Knowledge. BLACK. But as we search for these truths, we watch you become frightened. Frightened of how self awareness makes us oh so powerful in this skin. Frightened that we may finally find the fullness of truths you’ve wrapped in colorless lies and tried to put a bow of religion on top of, that just kept falling off. Yes, we now know…Jesus wasn’t white. And we know we were the original people. An idiot told me that I’m American first and my American pride should outweigh my black pride. Have you ever walked in a tattoo shop and the owner proceeded to put up a confederate flag and refuse you service? I have, twice. Have you ever been asked if you were mixed because for whatever reason black girls aren’t supposed to have long hair? Have you ever been called an Oreo because you speak properly and carry yourself well? And have you ever been whispered to “you’re not like the others….”? No? Okay then shut up. Your opinion is not valid in a circumstance you have yet to and will never experience. These are the things that fuel racism not my rolling voice of thunder shouting black pride ever so gracefully. When these experiences become a “normal American experience” I won’t push my American blood to the back burner. When we’re all handled with lethal force, talk to me. When we’re all suspended from school for wearing natural hair, talk to me. When we’re able to take an SAT without being categorized, talk to me. And when I can raise my beautiful, brown-skinned son without fear of him ever being stopped, harassed or shot by the cops, talk to me. Until then, DON’T TELL ME YOU DON’T SEE COLOR. Either support or forever hold your peace.

Like what you read? Give S. M. Durden a round of applause.

From a quick cheer to a standing ovation, clap to show how much you enjoyed this story.