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Never would I imagine that I would still feel terror as an adult. Fear has always played a recurring theme in my entire life. As a child, my main phobias were fictional entities that would viciously stalk their victims. Freddy Krueger, with his unnerving smoldered body and gloves that were composed of razor-sharp nails. Jason Voorhees, the invincible monster that roamed the dark haunted woods of Crystal Lake, influenced by his mother to continue the legacy of murder.
Luckily, I grew out of the thought of being distressed by sinister characters on the screen. Growing up, I believed if one reached a certain level of maturity then the idea of displaying a petrified spirit would be deceased. Unfortunately, I was invalid. As I’ve gotten older, I was inflicted by a new entity. A presence that was never fabricated into a concocted on-screen horror that would convoy playful panic into the viewer. It was wraith that was visible. As a child, I never would have imagined that I would grow up to feel frightened by the inhumane activities that were brought upon by the opposite race.
Racism is an entity that has brought malice into this world for hundreds of years. Although this common force did not possess a supernatural ability, its presence that stalked the planet, specifically the country that does not restore the same fondness, was commonly noticeable. Racism is a shape-shifting behemoth that has been around for ages.
Racial injustice comes in many different appearances, some disguises bamboozled me; as I was gullible to thinking that there were either ordinary people, or individuals that are called to protect us. A policeman, a white female that is emotionally bothered by the sight of Black people in her area (aka Karen). A fellow co-worker in a white-collar corporation. Even a teacher who has low hopes that his or her black students would even amount to their expectations of a successful future. And so many fatalities had transpired that brought the unsettling feeling inside the depth of my stomach.
Being an African American teenager when Kendrick Johnson’s death was revealed, I was aware of the racial injustice that was happening in this country. I wanted to be open-minded by the cold-hearted world that I was matriculating into. My mid-teens were the years that we’re unsettling. I remember walking into my school building, roaming through the overly crowded hallways composed of peers of Black and Lantino students, talking about the death of a Florida teenager who was shot and killed while walking to his father’s apartment complex.
The death of Trayvon Martin cradled the entire country, mainly the African American community. At the age of 17, Trayvon’s life was taken from his parents. This incident sparked the formation of the Black Lives Matter movement. The case was the number one trending topic on all news outlets. Some sources would downplay the victim. He was a juvenile delinquent who indulged in marijuana. In the back of my mind I naively played devil's advocate toward the situation.
Yet, it was an unforgettable conversation with my mother over the phone that changed my entire outlook on not just his death, but on my life as well. She stressed the importance of being cautious whenever I leave my grandmother’s home. She opened up about safety procedures whenever I would embark to school and back to my home. We talked about if there is a dilemma where I am apprehended by police officers, I should follow orders and answer any questions respectfully.
That phone conversation nearly felt like I was given the talk about the “birds and the bees'' all over again. However my mother wasn’t being as playful. At that very moment, I heard the emotions in her voice; it was as if she was crying. I was, and still am, the only child that she ever gave birth to, and me being added to the ongoing statistic of fallen Black males with a hashtag before my name was her worst fear.
I realized my skin color was a target. From the new sneakers that my uncle bought me for Christmas, to the cheap chains I loved to wear around my neck, my fresh haircut with the curved part that my barber gave me on my hair. Whenever I left home, whether it was to the corner store to buy Takis, to play basketball with the neighborhood kids or even walking to the bus stop to go to school, I always believed I was target practice.
I thought racism was deceased when slavery was abolished on Juneteenth. I thought it would never haunt African Americans when the Civil Rights Act was passed. And, we as Black people all thought we had hope when Barack Obama became the first African American man elected U.S. president. All these changes that were created for the better cause and that demon kept coming back.
The cycle of black killings that were connected to racism was still going. Every hashtag that circulated on social media shattered my soul. I thought the distorted corpse of Kendrick Johnson that was mysteriously found in a gym mat would give us a wake-up call, but the horror tragically progressed — Freddie Gray being found deceased with a broken spinal cord, the unsettling summer of watching Eric Garner being choked to death just for selling cigarettes, the unlawful death of high school graduate Michael Brown sparking an ongoing protest in the city of Ferguson, Missouri.
When will it end? That pivotal question will always stay glued in the back of my mind.
As I close my eyes and lay in my bed, I know that America is burning. I realize that racism is a pandemic that took countless lives. It is a disease not even the coronavirus can consume. It destroyed close relationships. It divides a nation. It lingers in the air waiting to prey on its next victim. I know that any unlucky moment could put my name on a sign, with hundreds of protestors, mostly young demonstrators, shouting my name with their hands to the sky begging not to pull the trigger.
