growing up, black was never beautiful.

the silence of the white people and non black POCs i’ve shared moments of my life with has been the loudest thing I’ve ever heard. louder than my cries every time i hear that yet another black person has died for existing. louder than the sound of my blood boiling every time someone has made me feel less than because of the colour of my skin.

growing up, black was never beautiful. it wasn’t what i saw in films. it wasn’t what i saw glamourised. i got the message. until the black communities in my life made me feel different. sitting in the hair salon with a family that isn’t yours by blood but feels like home. churches filled with the black community always willing to give. i learned that being black was one of the most beautiful things a lot later in life because the world doesn’t let you think it is. we have given this world music, food, dances and CULTURE that have completely shaped people. yet still, the world continues to see us as less than. as not worthy of life.

i will never fathom how racism exists. it’s a question i’ve asked myself everyday since the first time i was made aware that i could be hated and treated differently for the colour of my skin. one day i hope our cries and screams of “please stop killing us” are louder than the complicit silence of others so that maybe one day our cries will be a memory of the past. something we will never forget. something that made us the strong fighters we have become. something that we hold in our DNA and pass on from generation to generation but no longer something that exists in this world. from a dream in 1963, to the dreams of 2020. i dream of a day you stop killing us because of the colour of our skin.