I never saw you.
I never saw your struggle, your pain.
I only saw what I was in the position to see.
I saw when you stole our mangoes, or picked on our dog.
I saw when you mugged my brother and stole his bike.
I saw the images on the screen. Drugs. Violence. Poverty.
I never saw you, though.
I kind of saw Tanisha and Tamara Kay and Willie
And Sam and Ellis and Tasha.
I thought they were different than you.
I thought they were the exception, not the rule.
I saw what I was taught to see.
I didn’t know that I was missing so much.
I didn’t know that I was blind.
I never saw you.
I never saw your history, your loss.
I only saw what I was educated to see.
I saw your mistreatment, your enslavement.
I saw you fight for rights, fight to be seen as human.
I saw the black and white images. Lynchings. Protests. Speeches.
I never saw you, though.
I kind of saw Frederick and Harriet and Dred
And Martin and Malcolm and John.
I thought that it was all in the past.
I thought that chapter had been closed, that things were solved.
I saw what the history I learned allowed me to see.
I didn’t know that I was missing so much.
I didn’t know that I was blind.
I never saw you.
I never saw your agony, your anger.
I only saw what I wanted to see.
I saw you reaching out for help, demanding what you didn’t earn.
I saw you on the opposite side of an aisle, embracing what I did not.
I saw your perceived laziness and greed and carnality.
I never saw you, though.
I was quick to see OJ and Marion and Clarence
And Lawrence and Al and Louis.
I wanted to believe that was who you were.
I wanted to believe that they represented what you were truly like.
I saw what my bias and prejudice wanted to see.
I didn’t care that I was missing so much.
I didn’t care that I was blind.
I started to see you.
I started to see your oppression, your story.
I started to see more than I thought there was to see.
I saw you being marginalized, silenced, pushed into the cellar.
I saw you imprisoned and disenfranchised.
I saw you being the scapegoat, the enemy.
I started to see you, finally.
I saw through the eyes of Donald and Michael and Ta-Nehisi
And Angie and Howard and Colson.
I learned the horrific truth of our shared history.
I learned the indefensible, hateful, despicable truth.
I started to realize how my history affected yours.
I started to recognize how wrong it all was.
I started to recognize I had been blind.
I see you.
I see your uphill battle, your constant fight.
I see what it breaks my heart to see.
I see you being villainized, suppressed, ignored.
I see you beaten and blamed.
I see you at the mercy of the merciless, depowered by the powerful.
I see you. I see you.
I see Emmit and Elijah and Michael and Tamir
And Philando and Alton and Eric and Ahmaud
And George and Breonna and Botham and Jacob.
I am confused by the ignorance.
I am angered by the hatred.
I see reality and wish it were not so.
I see you and I am so sorry.
I see you; I am no longer blind.
They don’t see you.
They don’t see the sins of our land.
They don’t see what they need to see.
They see what they are told to see.
They see what they have learned to see.
They see what they want to see.
And they do not see you.
They don’t believe the truth of privilege and prejudice
They don’t acknowledge the existence of white supremacy.
They don’t accept the reality of a country crippled by systematic racism.
I’ve been there before.
I can’t justify it, but I can understand.
And I am going to fight to change things.
They don’t know what they are missing.
They don’t know they are blind.
Tanisha, Tamara Kay, Willie, Sam, Ellis, and Tasha were some of the few black friends I had growing up.
Federick Douglas, Harriet Tubman, Dred Scott, Martin Luther King, Malcolm X, and John Lewis were some of the black historical figures who slipped through into the white European focused history I learned.
OJ Simpson, Marion Berry, Clarence Thomas, Lawrence Taylor, Al Sharpton, and Louis Farrakhan were some of the black figures I encountered as I grew who served as the negative representatives of their culture, which was too easily seized upon by whites.
Donald Miller (Blue Like Jazz), Michael Eric Dyson (The Tears We Cannot Stop), Ta-Nehisi Coates (Between the World and Me), Angie Thomas (The Hate U Give), Howard Zinn (A People’s History of the United States), and Colson Underwood (The Underground Railroad) were some of the books that opened my eyes and my heart.
Emmit Till, Elijah McClain, Michael Brown, Tamir Rice, Philando Castile, Alton Sterling, Eric Garner, Ahmaud Aubrey, George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Botham Jean, and Jacob Blake were among the dozens of blacks abused and murdered by those who still believed a black life was not worth the same as a white one. And who still don’t.
