This summer has been a season of revelation. A close friend of mine, a White woman, told me that once upon a time she believed Trayvon Martin was in no way innocent. Believed this through the trial and believed this while we were friends. I’m not sure how long I was shocked silent, but my mind was racing. Does she remember all the tears I cried for that boy? Why is she only now telling me this? Have I been missing something? When I finally got out some semblance of a “what?!??” she told me she reevaluated her stance when she began to realize how often I wore hoodies and especially how often I wore them at night. I felt sick to my stomach. This felt like “put yourself in someone else’s shoes” but to a whole new level. How many other times had she put my face on these Black bodies?

This summer has been a season of revelation. I realized I AM these faces on these Black bodies, but she doesn’t get to put me there. Not when Black people are fighting to live, fighting for their humanity and their dignity, praying to not be another body, in another video, in another meme, on another t-shirt. A life is a life. You don’t get to switch them out until the right one fits. Her confession has left me a little unbalanced. I feel like I missed something I should have noticed. But hindsight, amirite? Can’t turn back time. I’m glad my friend is learning and I know she wants to continue learning, but I refuse to be her lesson.This summer has been a season of revelation.I am continuing to do some learning of my own. Growing my sense of awareness while not mistakenly reading into what is not there. Remembering everyone is on their own unique path. Accepting the importance of my voice and how to use it. I find comfort in the fact that as long as I’m learning, I’m growing, and these things will come.

Black Lives Matter is helping me. It is both mantra and movement, but also the personal reminder that I never knew I needed. Black Lives Matter to me means MY life matters and sometimes this world makes me doubtful. Makes me lose faith. Makes me forget. I forget and so I let my friend’s grandmother reduce me to “black Brittany” to differentiate from another friend who’s just “Brittany.” I forget and so I let my boss make a quip about how I should maybe think about straightening my hair. I can’t afford to forget. Because then I become numb to it and how can I keep fighting when I can’t feel anything? So I am reminded that it is ok to feel everything I am feeling — angry, tired, sad, disillusioned — and that I have the right to, no matter who says I’m crying victim. I am reminded that in the face of opposition to always be proud — proud of how my immigrant mother raised me, who I am becoming, and the legacy my ancestors bestowed upon me. And I am reminded that as much as it may try, there are some things this world will never be able to take from me. I hold all the cards.This summer has been a season of revelation.I found out I have a niece on the way.

So I wrote her a poem that I hope will always remind her of the power she possesses. I leave with you a piece of that poem, September, in case you need reminding too…Dear September, I want you to know how strong you are That your life is a garden you grew all on your own Show them the dirt on your hands and knees How you ripped out weeds of doubt How you watered every seed with tears you were never ashamed to shed Tell them you laughed in fear’s face until the sun came out Remind them you were woven in the depths of the earth And that you belong here

Rooted,
Britt

BRITT