They claim we’re playing the victim, as if our experiences are mere performances. They see us as mere characters in a drama, where being a victim is somehow more convenient than being an offender. They act as if America offers us immunity simply because of our appearance.
They say we’re “pulling the race card,” suggesting we can merely brandish it to enter some exclusive realm of suffering. They treat pain like a precious resource, as if trauma is something we can profit from. They ignore the fact that we’ve been running on empty for generations.
They insist we should be thankful and stop our grievances, assuming that what little we have was granted out of goodwill. They conflate half-freedom with actual liberation, as if living a half-life is not akin to standing at the edge of oblivion. They believe that our strength somehow absolves them of responsibility.
They speak of multiple perspectives, as if we inflict harm by expressing our grief. They treat the death of a Black child as merely a talking point, failing to understand that mourning is not a side of a debate. They seem unaware of the unbearable ache we feel for our children and our elders who must navigate this harsh reality.
They often say change takes time, ignoring that the urgency for it has existed for centuries. They think we can afford to wait for another generation of suffering, as if we don’t have vibrant lives to lead in the present.
They proclaim no one can deny the truth now, as if our churches burning and our bodies being shot are just cries for attention. They reduce our existence to mere statistics, using our deaths to bolster their narratives and reinforce their identities.
They assert that this isn’t their America, conveniently forgetting that it’s always been intertwined with our reality. They act as if they can detach themselves from the legacy that was built on our struggles, as if their comfort doesn’t rest on our pain.
They insist they are different from others, expressing regret on behalf of all white individuals, as if that somehow rectifies the past. They think that reparations are just comments on social media, placing the burden of forgiveness on us, as if that keeps us safe.
They shout for an end to white supremacy, all the while enjoying our culture from a distance, mocking us while feeling entitled to the very spaces we inhabit. They label our neighborhoods as unsafe until they are gentrified and then claim them as up-and-coming.
They bemoan their whiteness, believing that self-criticism somehow absolves them of it. They think expressing guilt serves a greater purpose, overlooking our fight as something that exists solely for their emotional experience.
Now, they say it’s time to listen to us, as if this moment is somehow more significant than all the ones that have come before.
So I voice what my ancestors would say, what many of us feel: I am angry. I am scared. I am weary. I demand more. I am a person. I feel unsafe. My concern extends to my loved ones, strangers, and myself. I strive to cut through the noise, hoping my words ignite a response.
They attempt to conjure something transformative but often revert to expected responses, satisfied, they shut their screens as the world continues to turn.
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In summary, this piece challenges the misconceptions surrounding the experiences of marginalized communities, highlighting the ongoing struggle for recognition and justice while advocating for understanding and change.