You don’t see color.

Yo, homes, lemme holla atcha for a minute.
I gotta tell you a secret.
Shh, com’ere.

your brother’s blood is calling out to you from the ground, but you can’t hear it, because your ears are attached to your eyes, and well,
You “don’t see color.”

You don’t see color.
You don’t see me in all my caramel macciato with an extra shot of mocha deliciousness.
You don’t see me.

You don’t see color, so I know for damn sure that you don’t see my coffee, chocolate, chicory-colored brethren as their blood is pouring out on the ground.

Because their pants sagged
Because their music was too loud.
Because their hoodie made them look like a hood rat.

Because they wouldn’t shut their uppity mouths and just go along to get along.
Because race doesn’t matter, because you don’t see color, because its not discrimination-it’s just that their skin probably blended in too well with the color of the pavement, yeah?

You don’t see color.
Can you see the Son of Man,
See his feet approaching in all their terrifying burnished bronze loveliness?
See that mighty sword he’s got for a tongue?
Nah, me neither.  I think maybe I could? A long long time ago? But, nah-I forgot how.

You don’t see color.
You don’t hear the whispers of your brother’s blood.
“Sing me the song of your people!” You cry.
Siyahamba! Alabare!  We’ll get tambourines and whatnot! You people like tambourines, don’t you?
But not too often. Don’t get used to it. Not often enough that it starts to feel normal. Not often enough that these words, these shouts, these songs might be coming from God’s lips. That’s just a bridge too far.

So we won’t.  We’ll just gather ourselves, our chocolate, caramel, chicory, coffee-colored selves at the river, as we always have done.  Can you see us now, our skin bright shining in the sun?  
We’ll gather, and we’ll take our harps down from the poplars, and we’ll shake our tambourines, and we’ll SING. Just loud enough that you can hear our voices wafting on the breeze.

just shh, be quiet
just shh, be quiet
just shhh, be quiet
you’re protesting too loudly to hear my heart.

Can’t you just be still for a moment and know that I am?
That I am enough?
That I am worthy?
That I am created from the same dirt as you?

That I am Adam.
That I am Holy
That I am Saved. From myself, and from you.

That God-Father, Mother, Creator, Sustainer, Redeemer, Deliverer-bound and bloodied and broken deliverer-that she wears my face, too?

No. Me neither.  I think maybe I could, a long, long time ago, but I forgot how.

But when I am still, when I am really still, when I am wearing my colors and not feeling afraid, I think I know something.  I think I hear…something. Something-a whispered song rising up from the pavement draped in blood.

I think it’s calling your name…In sighs too deep for words.

 

Jessica Davis

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