By The Rev. Cathy Gray

I cannot speak from experience about your life. 
But I can say this:
You are right to tell me
that I am a carrier of privilege,
that mine is a life graced
by the color of my skin. 
You are right. 


I can never know the pain
that lives in you, the pain
that may well be the death of you.


I have no way to understand
the fear bequeathed to you
by your ancestors
(cast upon them by my own).
I can never begin to grasp
what it means to have your life
formed and then cast out
by the happenstance of genetics
that gave you
(by some white-warped standard)
too heavy a dose
of tyrosinase or melanocytes


As a child
I was honored and loved
by my teachers.
I was respected by my peers.
I had an easy freedom to excel. 
I had clean safe water to drink
and quality health care
and all my shots
and I vacationed in beautiful places.


I knew my mom and my dad 
would be safely home at the end of the day;
that my brother
would live to adulthood, 
relaxed and at ease;
that I could choose from every adventure 
life has to offer
and safely walk - run! -
wherever my heart might lead
for as long as I live
because of the color of my skin.


I’ve never been called out on the streets
or had names flung at me
like stones
because of the color of my skin.


I’ve never been spit at 
or pelted with rotting words
or stopped while driving
or shot at while jogging
or banned from a bus
or a water fountain
because of the color of my skin. 


I’ve never had to worry
about my son’s future
or my daughter’s well-being
or about 
my standing in my community
or the safety of my neighborhood
because of the color of my skin.


I’ve never had to drag 
the history of my people
like a chain
or like a beating
or like denigrating nakedness
or like abject hopelessness
and being sold down the river
because of the color of my skin.


But I can see it in your eyes.
I can hear as your breath catches 
and as you swallow the hard words.
I can tell by the cut of your jaw 
- in such contradiction with your beautiful smile -
that being alive 
in this time and in this place
and in your skin
must hurt, might be
the very definition of trauma.


I’ll never know how it feels
to be you
but I can say, out loud:
This history is wrong. 
This present moment is wrong. 
This future we are careening into
is wrong. 
And I can say:
Your life matters.
Your life is of immeasurable value
(infinitely more than twenty dollars).
Your life (your beautiful life)
is held in God’s hand,
here, right next to mine.


And I can take a deep, deep breath
then, in front of everyone, I can call you human,
call you beloved. 
I can’t really tell your story because 
I cannot speak in your voice -
but I can speak. 
And maybe 
I can give you a moment to sit in peace,
to draw your own precious breath,
long and deep and alive.