You don't know my story

You don’t know my story. The aches and pains to gradual gains I’ve experienced. The ones that leave my heart and mind imprinted with memories I sometimes wish could be erased.  The thoughts that plague my body consciously or unconsciously 24 hours a day. The ones that won’t go away.

You don’t know my story. The 29 years that would take far too long to even begin to scratch the surface of what lies beneath the smile I wear, even when life seems unfair, I wear it. The images of a childhood that learned too early the reality of racism, whose innocence was taken without permission.

You don’t know my story. I’ll never look at a white pickup truck the same way. Walking down the street in broad daylight and feeling safe is something I don’t have the privilege of doing anymore, because it was robbed from me.

You don’t know my story. The stares that I always notice. The exhaustion felt from feeling the need to be better and do better while defending my place at the table. The desire to divide, and continue to hide, from one another is throbbing on a heart that hopes for more.

You don’t know my story, because if you did, I have to believe that you wouldn’t call me hypersensitive. You wouldn’t make me feel that my feelings are not valid. If you knew my story, you wouldn’t blame me. If you knew my story, you wouldn’t attempt to silence my voice and remind me of the MANY times this has happened in my lifetime by virtue of who I am as a black woman. You don’t know my story. You have no idea who I am.

So please, before you go victim blaming or accusing me of overreacting, take a moment to hear my story. Because my story influences how I show up in life. It dictates how I am triggered, what makes me smile, and how I make decisions. Stories are powerful. I’m proud of my story and who I am, and I know my story is more complex than 140 characters, a text message or email. If you don’t want to hear my story, that’s fine, I just hope you’ll consider taking the time to hear someone else’s. Because until we take the time to hear each other’s stories, we will continue to hurt each other in deep ways, and create wounds we are not ready to heal.

So, what is your story? I know I’m ready to listen. Who is willing to share?