Here we are again, violently brought back into our collective selves. This time a young boy was shot holding a bag of Skittles, or was it a young girl stoned for her sexual desires or wait was it you and i, seemingly, every minute of every day. Trayvon Martin was shot down.
One of my brilliant classmates said we should name our website, "I Am Tray," 'cause we all know Trayvon, c'mon. My first thoughts, what would people think. I have gotten so far from being myself, that when I hear myself, i question myself. I Am Tray.
My in my hoodie sitting in the back of the class, on the back of the bus, wondering if the metal detectors would go off when I walked through them, hoping not to be mistaken for a member of the wrong crew, praying that i would not be mistaken for the criminal or the conscious or the carer for that matter of fact.
I have been clenching my teeth for years. There is so much anger. Knowing what we know about our world hurts. I've cried two times this week for the first time in years. This pain for the world I have taken onto my physical body, scar tissue holding the legacy of my ancestors.
I need to continue my practice, healing, loving, living. My story, our story, the stories are all around me. Continue breathing them in.