Helpless

Onyx Contributor:  Nikkia Thornton

Hello…I am not sure what I am doing and to be honest, I don’t really know who would care to read about me figuring it out.  I have been writing since I learned how to put words together and the more words that I learned from reading, the more I wanted to write.  I love to learn new words and what they mean and what feelings they are meant to provoke.  In these past few years the word that I would use to describe what I feel now on an almost daily basis isn’t even one of the big words that I love to use.  Helpless.  That aptly describes what I feel right now just typing this.

I know I should be doing a pitch or trying to capture your attention in the first sentence, but there are so many words that are just rushing through my brain.  Why would anyone care about what I have to say?  An African American woman, married with three kids, two dogs, a partridge and a pear tree could not possibly have anything thought provoking to share.  But I do.  It’s the perspective and the feelings that more than just myself are experiencing for the people who care about more than just 15 minutes of fame or light or fire.  The flame I carry is that of my grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, husband, boyfriend, girlfriend, child, wife, black or white.

We keep talking about this conversation on race and yet the only ones truly speaking about it are those who have had to endure a loss.  A loss at the hands of those we thought were there to protect us.  A death at the hands of the media who has done their best to degrade our image.  A murder at the hands of one another because even in our rage we still hate to hear the truth.  A killing by the tongues of Black men and women who say, “You think they owe you something!”  The dead can no longer speak to our reality because theirs stopped the moment their heart ceased beating, but I hear the frustration.  I know way more intelligent Black people that are terrified than I do ignorant ones, but doesn’t every race have a group of fools?  Why are ours being given a platform instead of the ones who are really seeking truth and reparations?  Not monetary reparations, but the repayment of our dignity.  Our rights as humans to have made mistakes and not be judged solely on those.  I know I’m saying a lot and these are just words from a woman who loves the texture of them being spoken from my mouth and the melody of hearing them come from someone else.  I have no experience at writing articles and this would be a first for me, but every night I lie awake worried that what only I have seen written in countless journals, iPads, tablets, composition folders will be remembered only by me.  What I have written that has allowed me to keep going everyday should be seen by more than just me.  Maybe I won’t see an end to this hellish existence we are living in while I’m alive, but if someone will pick up the baton and keep running towards the silver lining that I know is out there, then that will be alright with my soul.  Blessing.