Black.

I don’t think they’ll ever understand what it feels like

to be graced with black skin and kinky hair.

I don’t think they’ll ever know how heavy our hearts are,

when we hear about another Trayvon Martin.

Or Tamir Rice.

Or Philando Castile.

Or Dayne Jones.

Or Eric Garner.

I don’t think they understand how heavy our heads hang,

when we see the police get off while

the moms of these precious boys and men crumble and cry,

and send their kisses to their sons now above the sky.

I don’t think they understand the rage and fury that courses

through our veins when they say

that police brutality doesn’t exist,

even when we march to the streets with our black fists high and

our hearts being poured out on the streets

like the blood of the gorgeous men above who have died

at the hands of evil.

I don’t understand why they say that only a small group of police are corrupt

and that we shouldn’t look at all of them as bad

when that is all they do to us.

They see a black boy and a stigma arises like smoke from a fire.

That he’s dangerous,

frightening,

scary.

All of a sudden, he wears a target on his back, and involuntarily

waves a red flag at the bulls of the police.

All he needs is to hide his face in a hoodie,

when its cold out and he doesn’t want the wind in his face,

to be considered a suspect.

All he needs to do is accidentally walk too close to the wrong person,

or appear like a threat to be

treated like one.

All he has to do is appear scary and black,

to be shot in the back.

And the cycle repeats itself.

The concrete we walk over has been graced by the poor blood,

of the dark and beautiful boys mentioned and the dozens more.

I don’t think they understand how terrorizing it is to know

that the list has grown,

more Trayvon Martins and Philando Castiles

They don’t understand how fast the tears fall when

we realize that their names are just one of many.

How helpless we feel when

we hear another acquittal and another non-guilty verdict.

How are we supposed to get up and

place our trust in those that seem to break it?

How am I supposed to place my trust in the men and women of

the police department

when they have killed my brothers

when they have hurt my community,

when they have caused our hope to suffer?

Not disappear, but suffer.

Every time those young boys become angels above us,

our hope gets whipped in the back and bashed in the head.

Our hope becomes crippled but we get up.

The spirits of those boys push us to rise and fight for them.

We must wipe our eyes for all the men that died,

screaming with their hands up as the one faithful bullet fired.

We must brush the dirt off and stand tall and show

the poor boys with a runny nose,

that died right on our pavement that

we will fight for them.

We have to because if we don’t, they will win.

Even if they never understand how much heartbreak my community

has been through.
Even if they never understand the struggle of being black,

with the looks and the slurs and name calling and videos and blackface and media.

Even if they never do.

I know I will raise my black fist,

along with my brothers and sisters,

with power and glory from the dozens of boys and men behind us.

I know that I won’t give up, no matter how hard

the powerful people in office try to push us back.

We will scream through our megaphones,

and yell until our voices run hoarse.

We may have come a long way, but not enough.

Moved from bondage to segregation to devastation and discrimination.

From chains to colored signs to handcuffs.

From whips to baseball bats to bullets.

Has it really gotten better?

Yes. It has.

But I will still march,

just like Martin Luther King did,

for the same things we fight for today.

We can’t fear and must fight.

Instead of shaking my head,

I will shake my fist as my voice and the voice of those around me

magnifies and rocks the earth and

the boys in heaven will hear us.

They’ll see the tears run down our faces in pain for them.

They’ll hear the pain of years of discrimination laced in our voices.

They’ll hear us yell Black Lives Matter,

and the boys will cry with us, happy that we are fighting the fight

that they can’t anymore.

I promise,

to all you beautiful boys and handsome men,

who died facing a barrel,

even after listening to everything those officers said,

I promise I will fight.
Through my words, on the media, against the bigots and ignorant people

that plague America and keep us down.

I will fight for all of you, no matter how beaten and battered I get.

I will fight for you, Trayvon and Eric and Tamir and Dayne, and Philando, and Martin Luther King.

I will fight for all of the names of those I don’t know merely because there are so many.

I love each and every one of you and wish

you could be down on Earth with me

so that we could all fight.

But you aren’t.

So my voice will carry yours.
I will make sure of it.

I will make sure they understand even if

it takes the rest of my life.
I promise I will do everything I can.

I promise.

Love,

Zoe Lafontant.

The black girl who will embody you all

through my small voice that will soon

become powerful.