Hide & Seek

As a child, I remember playing my favourite game of hide-and-seek.

I hid hours, upon hours, in a darkly-lit closet containing bleached clothes and memories that last a lifetime.

“3-2-1...Get ready, I’m coming,” yelled my friend from an adjacent room;

I remained quiet, incredibly silent, remembering to regulate my breathing along with the quant whistle of the wind outside.

I heard footsteps as he cautiously advanced.

“Nardo? Where are you,” he yelled, as a shadow cast itself - made from the receding light.

He walked past, and I silently rejoiced.

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But, as time progresses, I become more complacent with my disposition and yearning to be chosen.

Minutes to hours, hours to days, days to months and years,

and I continue to hide from and to be sought out by others.

I...We hide among the darkness, wishing our shadows mimic the isolated light that subsists.

We conceal our true essence by giving others the keys to our black discourse, hoping we’re accepted by constricting our arcane experiences.

We alter our speech from “What a gwan’,” “Wass good?,” “Eryting cool?” and “You aite?” to “Hello,” “How are you?”, “Is everything fine?”, and “Are you alright?” to comply with the universally verbose language of acceptance.

We, confused by our own histories, define ourselves by 50 shades of Starbucks — morena, caramel, chocolate, and my personal favorite: pitch black,

where self-hatred embodies these classifications.

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But, my skin will not be my epitaph,

adorned by the lamenting words of others “Here lies the half truth of a whole life.”

Here LIE the powerful and pervasive, but gravely unmasked memories of George Floyd, Mike Brown, Trayvon Martin, Eric Garner, Tamir Rice, and scores of others.

Our creviced, cracked, and capricious skin is stunning.

Though we bleed the same red as everyone, our veins (strong and supple) cris-cross like the etched tracks of the Underground Railroad,

while our blood (warm and resilient) purely drips with read memories of an unforgettable past.

Yes, our tragic and cathartic lives matter because they exude excellence.

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Small snippets of black echelons illustrate power.

Rosa Parks sat to bus the racial paradigm of generational separation.

Dr. Martin Luther King fought for equality,

during the un-so-civil rights movement, so we could live in a liberated world.

Maya Angelou wrote of the rights and wrongs that contributed,

to our community for so long,

while penning the concerns of what we -as a people- do wrong.

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Simply put, black is....

Brave, Bold, Blithe, Basic

Bashful, Balanced, Blissful, Brilliant

Beloved, Beautiful, Baffling, Becoming, Beguiling, and Benevolent;

but, most of all, MY BLACK is personal.

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The game of hide-and-seek never ends;

only its circumstances and people change.

The next time you hide your blackness or others try to,

understand that black is not solely a colour, nor just a race, a preference, our food, hair, speech, or fleeting moments;

it is a harmonious, contentious and beautiful symbol of unity, expression, and complexity.

It is not meant to be hidden, nor sought.