Red Monologue

I distinctly remember having lost all feeling in my tongue and walls closing in around me. I remember sitting on my bed, feet dangling over the edge. Visions of my brothers, my nephew, and my unborn son flashed in my mind like lights warning me to not come any closer; for if I did, I would meet a similar fate. The light from the television flickered on our faces; mine blank, two shameful, and the last with rage. There is not a single noun, verb, or complex sentence in any language to describe how I felt that night. I watched as some woman who would later go home to her children, tuck them in and kiss them goodnight read out the sentence “Officer Darren Wilson will be cleared of the following charges.” As I continued to stare at the television
As if being the offspring of the city’s Black power couple was not enough of an edge for me, I also was granted by God my mother’s pale complexion. It is not hyperbole when I tell you every day of my life I have been asked about the origins of my unique skin color. One of my most prominent memories attached to my complexion was when an older White gentleman stopped me on my way out of a restaurant to tell me I was, “The prettiest little coon he had ever seen.” When I looked into his eyes, I saw no trace of malice, he genuinely thought I was beautiful and that that was the way to express his shock at how glorious of an anomaly I was. As if Black, woman and beautiful simply cannot coexist in human form. As if I was a New Orleans Quadroon bore from Voodoo magic and not a woman from Adam’s
I was in my first picket line when I was five years old and I could barely hold signs. My mother never allowed me a single moment to question my Blackness or to listen to those who did. In my lifetime I have registered at least 500 people to vote, been in 12 protests, given more speeches than I can count and have taught dozens of ex-felons in Alabama how and if they can get their voting rights restored. I have dreamed, and frankly, felt destined to become a defense attorney since I was eleven years old. There is no prettier picture to me than the look on someone’s face when you tell him or her, “I will help you.” The expression of my lineage, battle with colorism, and NAACP youth council war stories are important for what happened to me in February. I had been trained every day for 22 years for that moment, and I failed. I looked at her and sternly said, “I am not going to admit guilt when I didn’t do anything.” All three of them laughed at me. The older White gentleman finally spoke up and said, “Just say you did it, and we’ll have you cited. We’ll tell the officer not to arrest you so you don’t have to walk out in