Dear God, You know my story, but please listen anyway.
My parents cried when I was born. You see they always wanted a son; they had three girls: one his, one hers, one theirs together.
When my mommy found out I was a boy, her heart was filled with joy, and my dad was ecstatic to have a legacy, a little man, another 49er fan.
Then Sterling died and so did Castille, just two more black men being killed, and that joy that once filled her heart was replaced with fear.
She prayed for more faith, she prayed for understanding, but really all she wanted was a better chance for her son to have the opportunity to become a man with some dignity.
It’s 2016, and my birthday is coming, a time that should have been a blessing, but this year the election proved that this country was filled with people who thought black men and boys still needed to be taught a lesson and put in their place. She cried herself to sleep.
I’m here, and now I’m three, and even though Kaepernick took a knee, the country does not hear our plea because the death of Ahmaud Arbery proved that the black man is still not free.
We are hunted and mistreated, we are tired and defeated from living in a country that we built but we cannot trust to care about us.
You see the system doesn’t care at all if I’m small or if I’m tall, they just see the way I look, in hoodie or in a suit, they don’t ask questions, they just shoot and justice is for everyone but me.
Dear God, You know the black man’s story is filled with sorrow and not much glory. You best of all know our pain, You know we have more losses than we have gains and through the tears and blood stains, one question remains,
Dear Lord, what do I do when little black boys like me are no longer cute?
Written by Tamara O’Briant Barrett