The Scarlet Letter

My brown eyes followed the journey of Hester Prynne

and the scarlet letter on her porcelain skin.

No blade of green beneath her feet

could lead her just beyond the sea,

of pigmented eyes and their reckoning.

And at 13,

I would often think,

if only Hester Prynne could leave,

or bleach could turn her scarlet letter pink,

maybe then she could live in peace

– MATTER –

and be seen as a human being.

Now, I have all respect for our police.

Today, some suffer the same indignities

as Hester Prynne,

it’s not their skin,

but their LIVES suffer for the clothes they’re in.

If only there was something they could do

to turn their LIVES to green from blue,

maybe then, they could live in peace

– MATTER –

and be seen as human beings.

My life is BLACK,

my name is BLACK,

if there’s chicken on my plate it’s BLACK.

To me – I’m BLACK,

to you – I’m BLACK,

every single thing I do is BLACK.

In college, I was “articulate”

at work, my perspective is “diverse and different.”

When there’s a shooting

then riots and looting,

I’m praised for being BLACK and calm,

and the right BLACK, when other BLACK is wrong.

I smile and charm and hold up my head

like nothing, and I mean nothing, can get me upset.

Because being white and upset is probably principled,

but being BLACK and upset is a threat.

But that mindset can’t save me in a palatial store,

where I’ve negligible time to build rapport

with security who notices me,

or employees interested in following me.

You see, I can empathize with Hester Prynne

and the scarlet letter on her porcelain skin.

I can empathize with the arm of the law,

and the blue clothes they can, somehow, never take off.

But if the average white person wanted to know (in part) how it feels to be BLACK like me,

and to not be seen as a human being,

they would only wear clothes that say, “I CAN’T BREATHE,”

and wear BLACK LIVES MATTER across their mask,

no MATTER what day – no MATTER what task.

They would feel the eyes at the grocery store,

and the same eyes as they walk through any door.

To be reduced to a single issue,

is not a thing a normal person would choose;

I know what that implies for me,

you can decide what that means for you.

If I don’t get killed by police, myself

or in palatial stores - get too much help,

or end up as a red-lined resident,

in a neighborhood as red as the lines on Hester Prynne,

then my life will be as good as being BLACK can be.

I’ll go through life trying not to appear threatening

and avoid some pigmented reckoning.

And when there’s a shooting

then riots and looting,

I’ll be praised for being BLACK and calm,

and the right BLACK, when other BLACK is wrong,

Instead of me,

Just… me.

In a normal way, unique,

not BLACK, not blue, not pink,

just… me

a human,

just being…