#trueamerica

I grew up in the south. I left my hometown in Virginia with hopes of finding freedom from the assumptions that came with having my darkened flesh. I found myself in the Bay Area of Northern California, and still I found myself playing part in the partitioning of the races. I lived within the boundaries of which my flesh could afford comfort, and I quickly discovered that the entirety of the United States of America is not meant for the successes of brown-skinned males.

  There is always going to be someone that crosses the street, clutches her purse, or just double takes when I come into the vicinity. There will always be accidental racists that needle into my past in order to see if I hold as much “merit” as my white fellows. There will always be drunken white males that want to accost me in bars. There will always be a George Zimmerman placing judgment upon my flesh before my mouth even opens. I will always feel the weight of my skin in America.

  There are places in America where I cannot go and feel comfortable. During the 2008 election, I went camping with my friend Chris and his family in a southwestern-most county in Virginia. I was excited. I enjoyed watching the mountains emerge from the foothills blanketed with evergreens, the fog that dampened all rocks to have shimmering value, and the family that I was with that never made me feel the differences in our traits. But then we arrived at a convenient store, and I was not allowed to go in because of the troubles that my appearance would have caused. The warnings of my unwelcome were represented by symbols and words that disapproved of a brown man being a candidate for the White House. The air that those words created took my fear from the howling wolves that I heard from the canvas tent and aimed it towards not being seen on the grounds on which we camped. I was in fear for my life the most I had ever been. I was in the middle of nature and I only feared mankind.