We cannot live our lives to facilitate the social encounters of our parents. Our success cannot be confined to the parameters of “my son or daughter is…”. If we ought live this way, for a sound bite, we shall never find the truth of ourselves. Never have the courage to chase culture over chemistry and propose to write of sneaker culture instead of the classical civilizations of antiquity.
Hushed whispers go silently into the night. Our voices are left there, held captive. Our truths are comforted from under us. We are consoled and embraced, but who fights for our voice. Our silence becomes an internal report, a memo, notes on a family scandal. Why do we fear the outsider? Why am I relegated to find the humanity in a person who showed none for me? Why has reporting the crime become perceived to be almost as vile as the crime itself? Why am I bound by the thoughts of not wanting to put another Black man in jail or in trouble with the law? Why as I reach out to the authorities do I question if I’m doing the right thing? Why do I question my worth and my voice? Why did I ask myself if it is really worth it, was it that bad because he could’ve raped me or it could’ve happened more then once? Why have you taught me to hate myself? Why didn’t you fight for me? Why do I still cry for me but only oh so silently a fragile whisper in the night? Why did you make him right that day when you refused to fight?