Hopeless, voiceless, suffocating by our own ancestry. Muffled tones of freedom songs in sync with the stomps of our feet, our negro spirituals. The spirits of our African American leaders now lead this march; our limited knowledge of our African American history motivates us to keep marching, to keep preaching, to keep praying for peace, for justice, for hope that will get us far beyond this one day full of racial fury; justice that will prevail further than just these Florida streets. I can see him now, black hoodie on tight enough to choke the black out of him, skittles and tea in hand. Scarfing down what would be his last pack of skittles, last meal, last breath before gunned down at age 16. Shot by a man that feared his life because of one young black boy. I pray maybe it was on purpose. Maybe god created him as the sacrificial lamb, maybe death isn’t the hopelessly tragic end to one life but the beginning of many others. Maybe this man saw something in you that scared him, a cowardly escape from an unborn revolution. I think maybe it was an accident; maybe black is too dark and rich for his eyes. Maybe he mistaked you for a fearless black cat, eyes sparkly enough to compel men like him to be intimidated. Maybe he feared your grace; a walk nothing short of perfection. Maybe just maybe he was scared, scared that brown skinned boys like you now have motivation, now believe in something far beyond these streets. He feared “Black”; Black as in the color of your skin, black as in your hair, black as in the power of manifesting change. I can see him now crimson red stains on his black hoodie, arms spread wide like Jesus on the cross-our people’s sacrifice. I can see him laying helplessly on the concrete wishing in just his last breath for justice, for hope, for prayer to take away the malice and anger concealed in our hearts. Praying for a melanin safe enough to run to.

“Not guilty.” Hundred year sentences locked on our people, the government’s way of saying you niggas still lose. A hurricane of emotions wiping us all out for one second, I call her Katrina. One moment of helpless infuriation now motivates us to march and to march just until the news coverage dies down, until our brother’s holocaust is no longer relevant. We stop when Treyvon’s name no longer pops up on the TV screen, until we no longer find it crucial to keep fighting. Once we stop the fight we are now lynching our people on the judicial branches of our society; locking our freedom away in bars that should have been occupied by the men responsible for our racial injustice. The white mans hands strong enough to suffocate us into human extinction. We are like monkeys to them, caged up in belligerent fury, waiting for one act so horrific it pushes us out of this quiet suicide. Waiting for one more person to be sacrificed to understand these aren’t just accidents, murders sprayed like pesticide aimed to kill us. We as a race, as a culture, as a family must fight until these imprinted scars on our back are worth the trouble. We must fight not for death but for peace. We should never let our angry ignorance blind us by what should be done, but what should have already been accomplished. “Black”, the power to manifest change, and if not for Treyvon then for ourselves, because whites make sure our only options are death or cells.