Do you remember what you were thinking about the first few years of your life?
Do you remember how you wandered and wondered through the world?
What sights, smells, tastes, textures, sounds and expressions you caught?
What greeted you with surprise?
A butterfly, a friendly smile, the laughter of another child?
Lost in the truth of existence without much interest in dimming your experience, you ran at life, arms wide open, full throttle.
As you grew up you realized the world was sharing stories about who you were and where you came from that made you separate from the collective narrative.
In a mixture of white tales you began to wonder, where was your voice in this history book? On this TV channel? On the radio stations?
You began to wonder, why do they hate me when they don't even know me?
How could they hate me when they can't even see me?
If you grew up discovering the world hated you, might you be a little hurt? If your lineages were unrecognized and dismissed for all their strengths, might you be a little angry? If your son or daughter was shot and killed, with the perpetrator off the hook, might you act out without a care of what white people might feel about it?