I am not going to speak about Black pain.

hey y’all. it’s been a minute. I’ve been living, processing, & feeling. I wrote this on my notes and felt compelled to share. so often, Black + Brown people’s pain is put out on display. for the world to see. for the world to mock. so often, we are asked to share, to explain, to again- put our pain on display. the burden of responsibility is placed on our shoulders even as we seek to heal.

this came from a space of wanting to speak up about something other than our pain. can you just ask us what the weather is? or better yet, ask us how we are doing, how we are coping. & take a moment to listen.

this is a poem for Black Lives.

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I am not going to speak about Black pain.

I'm not going to sit here and watch you squirm at yet another viral Black body lying lifeless on the ground.

I am not going to speak about Black pain. 

I'm not going to tell you about the Black mother losing sleep because her son will never walk through those doors again. 

I am not going to speak about Black pain. 

I'm not going to hear another sermon about teaching your kids how to talk to police, or how to be polite, or how to keep their hands in sight, don't make any sudden movements, and of course- smile so that police officer won't shoot. 

I am not going to speak about Black pain. 

I'm not going to cry watching Black girls wishing their lips weren't so thick, their hips so bouncy, and their skin so dark even after every part of their feature is emulated anywhere, everywhere across white suburban America.

I am not going to speak about Black pain. 

I'm not going to recite the Black texts, the Black heroes, the Black history they kept from you in an attempt to conceal their fear of you.

I am not going to speak about Black pain. 

I'm not going to recall the underwriting, the disinvestment, the white suits that appeared on every block in our neighborhoods which tore apart our homes, closed opportunity at our feet before it even had the chance to come knocking. 

I am not going to speak about Black pain. 

I'm not going to read you the letters from fathers, from mothers, from uncles, from aunts, from sons, from daughters, sitting in jail, waiting for trial, waiting to come home.

I am not going to speak about Black pain. 

I'm not going to count the miles that it took to get us here, the soil so foreign, the language not ours, the roots uprooted, the lands forgotten, the oceans between us. 

I am not going to speak about Black pain. 

I'm going to watch you learn to address us by our pronouns, speak every syllable in our names and see us as holy. 

I'm going to watch you see us - for what we are, who we are, what the world has made of us, what we have made of ourselves.

I am not going to speak about Black pain. 

I'm going to let you see the dirt we walk through, to see what we stand on.

I'm going to remind you that your future does not exist without us and our contributions.

I am not going to speak about Black pain. 

I'm going to walk past you, while I grasp my brother's hand and we let the light shine upon us, the light my ancestors lit for us.

I'm going to hold you while we march forward, eyes steady, no blinking, you might miss this vision.

I'm not going to speak about Black pain.

I’m standing.

I'm here.

I live it. 

--
Beya Jimenez