My Forever Tainted Eyes

Cold. That's what Andre Jamison thought as he caressed the face of his dead sixteen-year-old son. He tries to hold back the tears but like a raging waterfall the tears can't be held back. It's the same for Andre's wife, who stands next to him, face deep in napkins drenched with tears and mucus. A large congregation of people stand behind the grieving parents. Some cried. Others stood silently. Quite a few wore the wrinkles of anger on their faces. Meanwhile, Brandon lays, blissfully, in his casket unaware of all the faces that have come to his funeral. Both parents grab hold of his stiff hands and repeatedly chant the words, "Justice for Brandon." The large crowd follows their lead and joins in on the chanting, expressing their rage, dismay and utter grief with these few words. They shout for justice even though Brandon was betrayed by the very justice system they're calling upon. The justice system that swore to serve and protect Brandon. The justice system that doesn't have their interest in mind. The one that was in fact created to lock them away from society and imprison them in complete solitude in order to once again strip them of their humanity, liberties and freedom. Brandon was a victim of discrimination incited by ignorance and coupled with prejudice. I know a Brandon, for parts of him lives within me.

I was in the six grade when I changed schools. From the historical city of Memphis Tennessee my family moved to Nashville Tennessee. My father got accepted to attend Vanderbilt University to earn his Master's degree in Theology. Two years, that's how long it would take for my father to earn his Master's degree. Those two years of my life were utter hell. From a private school I moved to a public school and it was there that I was met with my first case of discrimination. Many more cases both verbally and, in one instance, physically would ensue. At the age of eleven I was clueless on how to deal with discrimination. On top of that, I wasn't the most verbal student, not at that school anyway. Hence, that made things worse. I never reported incidents to the teachers, the principals or my parents. I bottled it all up and till this day that lid remains sealed. However, before that bottle was sealed one of those incidents was able to escape.

There I was, seated in class and quietly listening to my English teacher speak about the correct usage of camas. However, she didn't seem connected, no one seemed connected that day. Every so often, I would see my teacher glance at an empty chair three seats to the right of me. Memories of the girl that used to occupy that seat flood my mind. A cold chill runs along my spine and I shudder in fear. I couldn't believe she was actually gone, permanently. I didn't know her well but I knew that she was often bullied, discriminated against and laughed at. She was tired of it all and simply had enough of living in a world that didn't appreciate her. She hung herself. Staring at the empty seat I thought, "That could have been me." For we had both been through similar things but I was lucky enough to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Finally, the two years came to an end and my Dad got a job offer at Dallas, Texas. There I was home schooled for the entirety of my high school life. Looking back at the experience I learned quite a lot. Sure the two years were rough and most certainly had their ups and downs but it opened my eyes to how the world truly is. Although, I must say that I truly do miss the way my virgin eyes used to look at the world. However, I'll never be able to see the world as I once did, for those eyes were gouged out long ago.