Black A.I

White Section

Nothing can compare to the way you feel when the colored seats are taken and you have to sit in the whites section, away from white people that are watching you with disgust and horror. It's not a good feeling. At least it's bettering, we don't get beatings anymore because slavery has been done, but the white people still have that same look of disgust. They treat us like chewed up gum.

Well there I was trying to catch the attention of the white, beautiful waitress, but as always all white people have to be served before they can even start taking my order. I saw someone haul at the waitress, before she looked at me with an angry gaze, walking over to me but keeping a fair distance.

"I have got complaints about you looking at that woman's husband some type of way, so I'm going to ask you to leave and if you don't the police will be notified," How would you feel, embarrassed, angry, offended?

Well my friend I was feeling all of that. You see we are not allowed to take their word and correct it. Once they said it, it was as if they had wrote it in the law book and I cannot go against this law.

So without a peep, I gave her a smile before making my way out with a few insults and laughs thrown my way.

My only escape from this is to believe that over the time people will get better and my people will get stronger and braver.

I can still remember the time my mother took it upon herself to protect me from my beating that I had deserved that day.

Men came in. Men stripped her. Men tied her. Men raped her. Men killed her. My father and I vulnerably watching as guards kept us in place from fighting back.

They didn't kill her right away.

They took her when she was unconscious from the beatings. I cried waiting for her to arrive. But days on end I became more and more hopeless until one day while sitting on the porch a car pulled over and some men threw a garbage bag in front of our house.

I didn't know how I knew but I did. It was her. I walked up to the bag untying the knot and my eyes coming in contact with her chopped up body that was skinned, only a few layers from her frail bones.

Father cried heaps that day. That year was a hard one. Especially on her birthday, which I had given her when I was about five.

Living a life as a black child was hard but living life as a black woman with minimal rights was even way harder. You had to be payed less, you can't go to a proper school, you can't sit somewhere without people staring at you.

But I had yet to find it In me to hate these people. After all they enforced the law to end slavery and I was forever grateful for that.