To Gift a Heart

Last year days after Atatiana Jefferson was shot and killed in her home by a white police officer I went to the grocery store.  As I was examining fruit, an elderly white woman walked up and stood next to me. I smiled and said “hello”, she turned towards me, eyes fixed and welling up with tears, she asked “can I tell you something?” I responded with a polite “of course” she uttered the words, “I’m sorry” ..I paused as my heart sank, I couldn’t hold back my tears because as much as I wanted to appreciate her apology, there were parts of me still wrestling with the idea of granting her forbearance for a centuries worth of pain, I wanted to hold onto the satisfaction of her shame. For once, it felt good not to have to wonder if they had hearts or if they could feel too. In that moment, I wished to know the type of grief she was feeling. One that was distant and far off, one she did not have to partake in or live through. See, the difference between her and I in that shared exchange was the one thing that has always amplified the line in the sand for us, the very thing that has continued to uphold a divide we never wanted to exist… COLOR. The pain she felt was at arm’s reach mines was buried into my spine at birth, I carry it on my back like a cross.. and whenever another black man is strangled to death or a black woman is shot in the comfort of her own home.. the remnants of their blood stains my already crimson cross, and the strength I need to shoulder such a burden... dwindles.

To the heart I found in the produce isle, thank you for your sentiment of compassion. You were a gift in a moment I needed it most.