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There are often times when I find myself looking in the mirror and examining my face, taking in my skin tone, noticing the fine lines starting to form, marveling at the deep rich melanin I’ve been blessed with. Lately, I find myself wondering, “What is it? What is it about the color of my skin that all of America seems to fear, hate or feel no compassion towards?”

I never have an answer. I can never put my finger on what stops people in this country from viewing me and others who look like me as worthy of being viewed as a human. We’ve seen it in recent examples of police brutality. If the victim is Black, society’s instinct is to turn the victim into a villain. The instinct is never to feel sadness that a life was senselessly lost. The instinct is never to condemn the person who promised to protect and serve, yet saw killing as their only option. The instinct is never to attempt empathy and understand the level of fear that the victim surely felt.

But even if we strip these horrific incidents of police brutality away, there is an overall resistance in this country to view Black people as humans and try to put yourself in their shoes.

I grew up in a predominately white city. From a young age, it made me painfully aware of how Blackness as a whole was viewed. The comments my peers would make to me were at times shocking. And I realized their view of me boiled down to one thing: They did not view me as Black. I was well-spoken. I was an overachiever. I was educated and talented. I did not fit the stereotype of what they thought was Black.

And that was the problem. That is the problem.

Whether Black people are relatable or redeemable depends on their proximity to whiteness. Follow respectability politics, code switch, assimilate to the white default that is America and you could become worthy of compassion.

But is that truly what has to be done for a Black person to be humanized? Is there a list of qualifications we must check off for white America to accept us? Is there no chance for who we are naturally to ever be enough?

America has failed to realize that Black people are more than just the color of our skin. Black people are mothers. Black people are fathers. They are educators. Friends. Innovators. Trendsetters. Entertainers. We are humans.

But for some reason, our complexion revokes any kind of connection to us because the people of this country have bought into the narrative that we as a people are violent and are criminals. Meanwhile, society excuses the behavior of dangerous, vile white men who kill people they don't know, time after time again. They are allowed to have bad days or have their behavior blamed on mental illness. But when it comes to Black Americans, we are not afforded those privileges.

It is easier to blame Black people for their own deaths than it is to feel sadness over the fact that they died. It must have been their fault. If they had only complied, they would not have died. Let’s wait to “hear the full story.” The situation is “complex.”

But the loss of human life is not a complex situation. It is a devastating one.

What will it take for America to see our deaths that way? We have been executed for running in the wrong neighborhood, listening to music too loudly, playing with a toy gun in a park, buying a bag of Skittles, shopping at a Walmart, going to church to pray, partying on New Year’s Eve, getting a traffic ticket, selling CDs and asking a cop a question.

We have been shot in our own homes and we have had 180 pounds pressed onto our neck for nine minutes. What version or experience of Blackness must exist for us to survive? And when we don’t survive, who must we be for you to empathize with our deaths?

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Malynda Hale is a singer/songwriter, actress, entrepreneur and activist. She has utilized her voice and social media presence as a creative influencer to effect change within social justice, female empowerment, LGBTQ+ rights, veganism and the Black Lives Matter movement.

Malynda Hale

Writing since February 2022 · 1 story contributed