My Heart Has Been Heavy As a Black Man For Years
Below is an excerpt from an unpublished essay I wrote Thursday night:
The phrase “my heart is heavy" has pervaded through the trial since it started. People are weighed down by the realization that in 2013, there’s still an overwhelming sense that minorities aren’t a party to an equal playing field. And I acknowledge that.
But here’s the thing: My heart has been heavy as a black man in America for years.
Even so, I embrace the opportunity to overcome any challenges that come with it. I’m not paralyzed. I thrive. I make an impact. I break stereotypes. I succeed. I show that our lives mean something as minorities.
But it’s a sad reality when the movements du jour are so hollow because we’re too lazy and/or scared to do more, waiting on the world to change without us first doing so ourselves. Blackouts aren’t enough when you’re not living a life that demands that you be treated equally by opposition. Protests aren’t enough when you don’t even respect the people you “follow" and “friend" that look just like you.
I give America no choice but to respect me. No choice but to make room for me at the table. No choice but to make sure my voice is heard. And people, of all walks of life—black, white, gay, straight, religious, non-, and everything else in between—listen and take notice because I leave them with the truth that their life would be less constructive if they didn’t. I don't have to accept being treated as second-class--because I'm not.
My head isn't stuck in the clouds though. As a black man in America, with her repulsive history of racism, sexism, homophobia and goodness knows what else, I often despise that I’m required to work doubly hard to prove that what I am and who I represent doesn’t align with the stereotype.
It’s hard. I cry sometimes. I ask myself why my black brothers and sisters have to work three times as hard for half of an opportunity that we’re often more than qualified for, but I gain renewal from this thought: We still have time. Time to reach across the aisle and join hands with those who may not love us as much, understand us as much or respect us as much as they ought to. And we can (and should) do so without finger-pointing, race-baiting and hate speech.
So that’s what gives me hope that the same faith in mankind that our predecessors had while they marched the streets of Birmingham can sustain us as we mobilize through the networks of social media to invoke progress for our generation.
Justice for Trayvon is an everyday initiative for me. He and the Oscar Grants of the world deserve my works, not just symbolism and rhetoric.
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