My America

My America died a long time ago.

I'm not sure if I can pinpoint an actual time when it happened in general,

But for me, it was probably when I was 7.

Someone who had met my dad called me Black and I cried.

If you ask me why now, I do not have an answer,

but then it was because my entire identity had been stripped from me.

In its place sat a label, and it was not one that fit me.

Maybe, it was after that.

When I changed schools for the first time and I had to introduce myself to a new class.

I stood up said my name and where I was from, I thought that was all I had to say.

But I was wrong.

On the playground, I got asked the question “What are you?”, and I didn’t understand.

The kids around me wanted me to explain the mystery of my caramel skin and afro curled

hair,

And when I said mixed they said liar.

“You can’t be more than one thing!” they shouted,

And I was left wondering then what am I supposed to be.

The following day,

My dad came to pick me up from the school,

And they wouldn’t let him pick me up until they called my mother to confirm that this

carmel child belong to this black man.

In High School when we started having to fill out forms on our own,

I had to put a check in a box to say what I am.

I checked off 3 boxes and turned it in,

The teacher called me back and said I couldn’t be all three.

So I checked the box marked other.

The one that made me feel like I had absolutely no place left in this America.

Of course,

During those times the difference was only in my head,

I didn’t really feel everyone’s hate, unless my family walked into a public place

together and felt everyone’s eyes.

Still, I had family around me then.

Fast forward to last year,

A presidential election is on the table and there is only hope for me on one side.

A candidate, has thrown away all decorum.

He throws around slander and hate feeding the country on racism and superiority.

I fall asleep, hopeful,

and wake up to my roommate, my friends, and professors tears.

Hate had officially won.

There is sadness and darkness first,

Then comes the anger and the call to action.

Now it is the time to march and scream until my voice is gone.

Fast forward, it’s the summer and I’m working a family restaurant.

My siblings are away in Myrtle beach on a youth trip,

And I am working to have some money for next semester.

A man and his wife come in, and at first everything is normal.

Then the man starts asking questions,

At first, it’s just my name,

Then it progresses

what am I?

What am I mixed with?

Where do I come from?

Do I speak English?

As this continues,

Questions turn into demanding answers and then accusations.

Finally, he states that I should “go back to wherever the hell I came from because there’s

no place in America for any Niggers or Mexicans.”

I finished getting their order and I went to the back and cried.

When I came home,

I felt all the fight leave me and I once again became the child,

who cried because she was black.

Two days later,

two hours away,

Charlottesville exploded with White Supremacist group activity,

and someone ran a car into peaceful protestors.

My America is dead and I don’t know if it’ll ever be revived.

Around me, all I see is the hate that floods every crevice.

A sea of anger and injustice,

That will never be done screaming.