Monet

Black Love Ballad

When I was in the second grade, I got an award for being a good storyteller I guess I understood at that age how to tell a tale worth listening to Captivating others by the rawness of its truth I used to think that I was free to write my own story Without having to worry about it ending prematurely

But then I saw it on the news A little girl who looked like me without her father The soul-crushing cries of a mother like mine Begging to hold her child one last time, her son Prejudged, his fate predetermined by a flawed system Because his skin was seen as a threat

March 13, 2020. 26-year old Breonna Taylor was shot 6 times and killed by police in her home in Louisville. April 7, 2020. 26-year old D’andre Campbell was shot and killed by police in his family home in Brampton. May 25, 2020. 46-year old George Floyd was choked to death for 9 minutes and 29 seconds by police in the street In Minneapolis. April 13, 2021. 16 year-old Ma’Khia Bryant was shot and killed by police in Ohio.

The list goes on and on and on. All were unarmed. All their deaths were undeserved but seemingly reserved I keep seeing it in the headlines. Again, and again, and again Constantly bombarded with the possibility That my life could end just as quickly With the false promises that those in authority will address the root of the problem and make changes to solve it; The inequality bestowed by the hue of my skin that forces me to work twice as hard only to get half as far

I don’t understand why my skin is seen as a threat I don’t understand why my skin is seen as a threat I don’t understand why it alone warrants a death sentence The claim that “it was just an accident” But what I do understand is the worry etched daily on my mother’s face Scared I’m unprepared for the world, that it won’t let me make it back home Because of the cruelty of the police The vulnerable and visible “minority” left in their hands At the “mercy” of merciless beasts

The thin blue line is what officers walk daily between life and death A sign of solidarity with those they swore to protect But it’s hard to have the back of an institution that wears it badge Loud and proud and still does not see someone like me as a person That wretched badge used as an excuse for the abuse of their power When that line is stained with crimson red

When a call for help turns into a cry of anguish Escalating and ending in unnecessary violence Innocent blood shed as a means of “self-defence” Their entitlement allowing for the consistent ignorance at seeing the difference that holding back a bullet could make Not stopping to think for a second; instead mistaking a toy for a weapon and a gun for a taser Because they fear for their life Well I fear for mine as well Because while they walk on the line I tip-toe in the space in between If things go sideways, they get a slap on the wrist If things go sideways, I cease to exist

So how many more necks of innocent human beings Have to be stepped on, trampled on, spit on Until those in power listen and make it a mission to fix what’s wrong? How many more mothers and fathers Will be forced to grieve and weep and bury their sons and daughters Because their lives were perceived as a crime? How many more needless deaths should we have to expect Before justice can finally be served? Before a lesson taught too many times is learned? Because where there’s no justice, there’s no peace And justice does not equal accountability

Under the eyes of God, all men are created equally We all breathe, we all suffer, we all love, we all bleed So why not bother to see me or hear me when I say I can’t breathe Instead choosing to paint me as the enemy Expected to turn the other cheek to the world’s racist continuity When I see the news in the headlines, I am fed up and I have had enough But I am reminded by my Saviour that my skin is not a sin It glitters like gold, written with story after story meant to be told Shining in excellence and endless perseverance, I am beautiful, I am strong, and I am full of love Even though we’re still behind, we’ve come so far on this hill that we climb And at times it can feel like we’re Sisyphus, working on a task that’s unending and tedious But don’t be afraid to write your story because the strides we make are still progress