I am NOT Trayvon Martin
I am NOT Mike Brown
and I am NOT Oscar Grant.
I have been forgotten or simply unheard of. My death quickly fading away like the mist that appears after the rain. My voice stripped away like the clothing off my back at the mortuary. Did all my early mornings and late nights not even matter? Does my name ring any bells besides the ones at the church?
Sorrow. Sorrow is my name. For nobody knows the sorrows of a black girl— this being why such a name is so fitting. You lose me in the darkest of nights but still fail to find me when the sun shines at noon. I danced with the angel of death to a nameless tune. My feet prancing and frolicking to the whistling of the wind and the crashing of the waves but yet I heard no outcry.
Why did nobody care? Why didn't anyone march in my name like they did Trayvon? Why wasn't my city shutdown like Mike's? Why did my death not matter? What happened to the protesters and the pastors? I guess an unarmed, "attitude having", hair extension wearing, shea butter scented black woman just ain't worth the fight.
The one who clothed you. The one who made up your bed and swept the floors. The one who made sure you had a hot dinner waiting for you when you arrived home.
The one who you told your secrets to. The one you ran to when the world beat you down. The one who stroked your ego and remembered your name.
Why can't you remember mine?
I am Rekia Boyd
I am Atatiana Jefferson
I am Pamela Turner
They Killed Me Too.
YOU ARE READING
Tales From A Statistic.
Teen Fiction"I'm the one your mother told you not to be like. . ." "The one who died in vain." "The one with no way out" "The rose that wilted."
