I couldn’t tell you what it was like, that’s what I remember telling myself as you fired off questions filled with confusion, embarassment and anger. Each one wrapped in what you considered to be protection but to me the opposite. Intention doesn’t prevent the bullet from piercing the skin and leaving a hole for all of my pain, all of my worry to bleed out. A bullet, that is what “what is wrong with you?” takes the form of, BANG!
How do you find peace when there is a war going on inside of you? A war that you did not start, did not ask for or feel apart of? A child watching a bomb fall from the sky knowing what will happen as soon as it reaches ground. Can’t you see that this is what it feels like? Can’t you see me waving the white flag? begging you not to shoot anymore? Can’t you see that this war is not my creation but one that I was drafted in and forced to fight? Can’t you see that despite my wishes and cries for peace that it will not be granted unless you realize that I am not the threat? I am the one being threatened? Another question of mine answered with confusion! another embarrassment! another with anger! Three bullets to chest, BANG!
You see, I couldn't tell you what it was like. That’s what I remember telling myself when I thought about explaining the complexity of my being. That maybe I wasn’t crazy and that there was more to my genetic makeup than what we were taught. That I figured out that strangers were taught to feel justified in hating us for our skin. How that led to me telling myself that I was another beautiful thing that was so different than them that the only way to handle this was to teach even you to hate me. I know that your reaction was not your intention, that you were just handling the words that I did not yet say how you were taught to when and if I were to say them. I also know that intention does not prevent those like me from becoming casualties of a war that we did not create but were drafted in. Left alone, left for dead, BANG!