"Put down the bleach. Your skin is not dirt that need to be cleaned out like yesterdays shirt. You are comprised of sienna, chestnut, and warm mahogany. Dark as the night sky, constellations tucked neatly under your bones. Your skin reminiscent of hot chocolate that warms winter nights. Like rings around a tree stump, you too have history etched into your melanin. Don't let the glaring whiteness blind you from the beauty you really are." ©


2. Prologue


 As I stand in the middle of the crossfire, I begin to think, "Is it really worth it?" 

 As my fellow white friends and my fellow black brothers go at it again and again, I still stand tall, straight, and still, as I continue to ask, "Is it really worth it?"

 "Is it really worth it?", Is it really worth all of the struggle we're going through? All the violence. All the hate. All the ridicule. ALL THE DESTRUCTION. Is only going to lead to one thing. Death

 Death doesn't discriminate. Death . Death doesn't hate. Death. Death isn't deemed so bad until you cross the lines of him and I. Death. Death doesn't seem bad until your love ones are stuck on the other side screaming and hollering about how they want their baby back but its too late and when it all dials down and the only thing left is. Death. 

 But it isn't as bad as it seems.  Death isn't nearly the end. Death can never be the end. Death is simply a road. Life is simply a traveler. And your soul is simply a guide. 

 "Is it really worth is?" 

 I continue to ask as the crisis only gets worse. Wasn't I not supposed to be going through this? My grandmother sat on segregated buses, endured the pain and violence of the riots, and yet I still had to go through all of this.

Was I not enough. Was I really not good enough.

But the question that bounced around my head vigorously was, "Is it really worth it?" 

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