Like running through quicksand.
Where did the ground stop and the quicksand begin?
I hadn't noticed.
I thought, at first, that if I ran
fast enough- I could remain above it.
I thought to myself:
"black lives matter"
I whispered to myself and those closest to me:
"black lives matter"
I clung to a litany of excuses as to why I was not screaming at the world:
"BLACK LIVES MATTER"
I was kidding myself
I pretended not to feel myself sinking.
I didn't want to sink.
I didn't want to need to sink.
I kept my distance.
I kept an arm's length away.
Which, ironically, is the exact length of privilege.
The reason I could keep my head above the quicksand for so long is the privilege.
Once the quicksand got to my neck
I stopped trying to run.
I physically could not run anymore.
And yet, I still did not speak.
I was so wary of saying the "wrong" thing, of fucking this up.
When the quicksand is at your neck, you don't want to waste your breath.
When you feel the quicksand lapping at your lips,
You cannot believe that you didn't start screaming sooner.
It's almost too late. Almost.
You thought that you could outrun the quicksand.
You thought that you could run.
Did you know that your running only makes you sink faster?
Did you know that you are your own problem?
Did you know that you are almost too late?
And now, when you scream
Sand pours from your mouth.
And tears fill your eyes because you choke on the sand.
And you are screaming and spitting because you don't want the sand in your mouth, your lungs, your body.
It tastes...
bitter,
like hate,
like ignorance,
like oppression,
like comfort,
bitter like silence.
And there are people whose lungs are filled with sand.
And you can't imagine how they can even breathe with all that sand in their lungs.
And you cry.
And you cry.
And you cry.
And it is in this moment that you remember it is not about you.
And when the quicksand reaches up over your nose.
You cannot feel.
You cannot taste.
You cannot smell.
You cannot hear.
like a bad sickness
you are robbed of your senses
but,
You can see.
All that you have now are your eyes.
And you will see the suffering and you will bear witness,
unblinkingly,
and when you open your eyes you see the hands reaching out for you on all sides.
on all sides.
Some want to pull you deeper.
But you look up,
reach up
And you stop fighting
and you pull yourself out
and you never stop fighting.
And before you go, you turn around,
you flinch at the sight, the memory, of the quicksand,
nonetheless, you reach our your hand and
you pull more from the quicksand
with the words,
"I was once you"
"now I am here, me"
always walking away from the quicksand,
always walking,
marching,
sitting in,
and standing up,
screaming.
protesting,
reading,
educating myself.
Sometimes you still taste the bitter quicksand in the back of your throat.
Sometimes you swallow it, a temporary relief, knowing it will come back again.
Sometimes you cough it up, spit it out, and you have to clean up the mess you made.
And you do.
Slowly, but with great care.
You do clean up the mess you've made.
AMV