Gaia’s Adress

I revel in this fictitious moment of solace as I peer out of my window at the moving trees as they rhythmically dance to a tune of misplaced sorrow. The patio door is left ajar, as I listen to the echo of birds humming in the distance. A cool breeze travels through the small slit in the doorway and trails itself by weaving between the cracks of my toes, tickling the hairs on my feet, and ruffling slightly between the bottoms of my dark green sweats. I try not to think, but my mind rests heavy, unsettled, and perturbed. This moment proves to be fleeting, as the delicate wind passes by briefly and dissipates into the harsh tendril-like air of a true disordered unknown. This solace is false, fake, a show it seems. 

I was brought back to the memory of my niece when she took her first steps towards the stage. I remember how her braided corn rolls polished the reflection of the sun. The closer she paced, the heavier her breathing seemed to be as the weighted air collapsed between her lungs. I could see her, hesitant, ready to dart back to her mother, in fear of the public that stood before her. She looked back at us, glancing over her shoulder, her skin contrasting heavily against the crowd of whites that had gathered there for the march that day. Her fear of difference reverberated along her skin, as black as a wet stone glinting in the moonlight, the ones found along the shores of a lake. She was strong, courageous, and willing. For at this moment it was her right to be heard.

Her darkened fragile eight-year-old hands adjusted the microphone, as her eyes traced around the crowd that stood before her. She cleared her throat, began to speak but paused for a moment, frightened unable to utter a sound. 

“Hello there everyone, today I will do a call and response.” She smiled. “For those of you who don’t know what that is, I will speak and you reply what I say. Thank you.” 

“I’m free,” she whispered.  

“I am free!” the crowd roared in response. 

“You better not silence me!” her voice became thunderous with each passing word she spoke, fueled by her passion, dander, and sorrow. 

“I am free! My skin works fine just like yours. You better not silence me.

I am free! My ancestors fought for me to live freely among you, so please, let me live. You better not silence me! 

I am free! My autonomy is not a right nor a privilege, it’s a requirement by law. You better not silence me! 

I am free! I am human and have a right to breathe. You better not silence me! 

I am free! Do not racially profile me, hurt me, or shoot me because of the color of my skin. You better not silence me! 

I am free! My skin is beautiful just like yours. You better not silence me! 

I expect to be treated fairly! As do my sisters, my brothers, my parents, and friends. 

I am free!

Please do not silence me!

I held my breath, as tears flowed freely from my eyes and wept for the Haitian half of my family.