A Double Crime
By Asiyah Muhammad
2020 Winter Showcase Creative Nonfiction Essay Award Winner
How does it feel to be The Most Wanted One alive—or rather dead? Tell me, how do you survive in a place that is out to get you? How do you go from being the prey to becoming the hunter? These are all questions that many of you probably don’t have the answers to. But this is my daily life. At the core, where my deepest, darkest most twisted demons lie, these are the thoughts that run rampant.
In every good book there is a battle of good versus evil. Well, where do I lie? Is my dark chocolate melanin poppin skin antagonistic? Or am I the innocent Black bystander who just plays a supporting role to the White main characters? In a world that is full of skin-lightening filters and long hair extensions, where do I fit in exactly? How do I stay true to myself without being killed for who I am?
As a person of color, I no longer just See color. I live it.
I Feel color when the soft hues of blue and white hard cotton fabric rub against my shea-buttered skin. I Feel color when rubbing pink hair oil through the messy nest on top of my curly head. I Feel color when I need to rub some Vaseline real quick on my chapped lips after each meal. I Feel color digging a deep burrow into my heart when mourning the murder of (yet again) another Black brother or sister.
I Speak color when protesting out on these streets, pleading “Hands Up, Don’t Shoot.” I Speak color when educating my friends about America’s dark past, like slavery, the truth behind The Emancipation Proclamation, blue bloods running our country, the real reason behind why the police system exists, and much more. With every protest I attend, with every hashtag I repost, I am Speaking my native tongue: the fight to survive due to the color of my skin. Not only do I attend these events, but I am also willing to have thought-provoking conversations with my peers to raise awareness about social injustices affecting not only Black people, but people everywhere around the world. Although these topics might be hard to talk about, both sides must talk about it if we are ever to make progress moving forward!
I Breathe color when holding up my beat-up cardboard sign while living the bolded message written in white sharpie marker: “Where There Is Oppression, There Will Be Resistance.” I Breathe color when smelling the nutty fragrances of coco and shea butter absorbing smoothly into my skin, almost like butter melting on toast. I Breathe color when inhaling the flavorsome whiffs of sizzling macaroni and cheese baking in the oven, the long green beans steaming in the pot, and the crispy fried chicken oozing in the oil. This isn’t just any ol’ food, this is our soul.
I Hear color on those drives to New York when my Dad puts in another record tape of the classics from Michael Jackson (of course), literally growing up to singing along with his every “hee-hee” or “shamone.” I Hear color when my Dad says, “What you know about true good music?” and then begins to put me onto artists like James Brown, Rick James, Marvin Gaye, Aretha Franklin, The Jackson 5, and so many more Black heroes who represented nothing but culture and sweet soothing soul in the music industry. I Hear color during the cookouts in the neighborhood with the slow jams that you would hear from the dollar store, to the kids laughing, having fun shooting hoops in the backyard, to the parents’ special “grown-up” talks around the dining room table. I Hear color when attending my sister’s African wedding, where they played popular hits from their hometown country, artists like WizKid and Davido still ringing in my ears and making me want to explore the culture more. I Hear color during recess in middle school when boys and girls hover around each other to see the dance battle, listening to that one kid who had the loud boombox blasting DJ Lil Man saying, “Who’s next? Jump in, let’s go!” But most importantly, I Hear color when chanting my life’s motto: “I Can’t Breathe!”
I Taste color when “accidentally” being pulled over for driving while Black, getting frustrated when being accused of stealing my own car—thinking: keep your hands visible on the steering wheel, slowly reaching for my license—Bang! Tasting the blood when coughing and seeing a dark maroon puddle gush from the wound, unable to do anything about it, except wait. Wait for the platelets to clump up together and rid my body of this pain. Internal damages. Shock and chills. Just shot and left on the side of the road, feeling like roadkill, waiting for the red sirens of hope to arrive and save me. Save me, please just save me, I didn’t do anything wrong.
I Fear color when reading the news about a Black queen, who was an innocent young EMT, being killed in her sleep in her own home. I Fear color when after six months of stalling, no REAL justice has been served. Now, I fear sleeping in my own home. I Fear color after seeing posts on social media about a Black king who was shot while running around his own neighborhood, peacefully, not harming anyone. Now, I fear running outside on the street, not knowing when my last breath will be. I Fear color when risking my life to protest for a just cause, knowing that the police and the military all around the country have been hitting protestors with batons, or running over them with their bikes/cars, or tear gassing and pepper spraying them for being on the “wrong side.” Now, I fear speaking up by using my First Amendment right to freedom of speech, assembly, and petition. I Fear color when being Black while driving, knowing that my life simply “can’t get off the hook” if I accidentally make a wrong turn or run through a red light. Now, more than ever, I fear being perceived as a criminal before I even commit an actual crime. I Fear color when even thinking about bringing children into this awful world—what a disservice to them. Now, I fear giving birth especially because Black women are two to three times more likely to die from pregnancy than White women. My life itself is already compromised due to the risk factor of the color of my skin. Not only can I not live my life, peacefully, but now I can’t even give life. Pregnancy in itself is a risk factor, and its effects, such as preeclampsia and hemorrhages, can become an underlying condition for life. Being a pregnant Black woman should be considered a risk factor and should be treated more delicately. Just because we are portrayed as “Strong Black Women” does not mean that we do not feel pain.
I Rant about issues relating to color, even though no one’s probably listening. A lot of people claim to be “woke,” but still turn a blind eye or shut their ears or simply run away from the truth of the matter. Like, why are the roads so broken down in Newark (a predominantly poor Black area) rather than in Westfield (a predominantly rich White area)? In Newark, it seems like every two feet, there’s a pothole or a speed bump—literally forcing Black people to slow down. If this isn’t clear discrimination, I don’t know what is. The lack of funding paired with the lack of education causes places like Newark, Irvington, or even my hometown, Hillside, to have lower socioeconomic status along with bad school systems and overall poorer qualities of life. This affects our youth, most importantly. For example, when mixed in a high school where kids come from all walks of life, our Black youth are the ones who suffer. They are the ones who have to play “catch up” in learning the material while their White friends are just “reviewing” it or out playing tennis or swimming. It’s not fair. It’s not justice. Heck, it’s not even humane. How can you treat one group of people so much worse than the other lighter group of people?
How is my melanin killing me? How does my melanin hurt you or your eyes? Do I look dangerous to you? Is it because of my tightly coiled hair, neatly wrapped up in a tribal turban, edges laid, of course? Or is it because of my pearly white teeth shining in the sun against my thick, wide, dark-lipped smile? Or maybe it’s because my Jackson-Five nostrils flare up when I’m angry. Whatever the excuse is, you shouldn’t treat me how you wouldn’t want to be treated. I need everyone to know this plain and simple: We weren’t brought to this country by choice, but we are here now, and we are here to stay. What’cha gonna do about it?
Even if you somehow fail to Feel, Speak, Breathe, Hear, Taste, Fear, Rant, or ultimately Live as color, you still See color and ignore it. You See color in the insurmountable disparities between the deaths of African Americans and their White counterparts due to COVID-19. And you ignore it. You See color in the overcrowded, broken-housed neighborhoods being gentrified into White classy expensive “refinement,” literally uprooting the culture of many minorities by forcing them to leave their homes. And you ignore it. You See color in the lack of Black doctors in our world, where people just claim the playing field is “even,” the chances of becoming a doctor are “equal.” And you ignore it. You See so many Black people struggling to bring food to their table, to pursue their dreams, or to even just live a fulfilling life. And you ignore it.
***
I am a double-edged sword. I cut too deep wherever I go, bleeding any which way I turn.
Mental health is often overlooked in the Black community. It’s because of the lack of trust we have in our doctors due to a dark past of being experimented on like we are creatures. In the Tuskegee experiment, Black people were not treated as humans. We were and still are animals in the eyes of our oppressors, just being picked and probed at, like mice in a laboratory. Our distrust of the healthcare system is a consequence of people not taking our symptoms and pains seriously. Why seek care from medical professionals who don’t even recognize how we express pain differently? Why go to the hospital unless we are physically bruised and bleeding? Ignoring our mental health only destroys ourselves further. But in a world that stigmatizes psychologists and psychiatrists as “crazy,” going to them for mental help is an unfathomable feat. Along with educating the Black community about the importance of mental health and recognizing different disorders, we need more accessibility to these services. That’s why we need more Black medical professionals who look like us, who have experienced the same struggles as us, who actually get us, and won’t ignore our outcries this time.
I’m at home right now, online studying, taking classes, writing this essay for an assignment, not knowing who or what I will become. But still, I’m working towards my goal of becoming a medical professional—maybe a dentist—of wanting to help people for the better. But before I do better, I have to be better. So I am writing this piece to productively turn my frustrations into something more meaningful, to release all this tension built up inside my chest—so full up to my neck, to try to inhale and exhale with less pain, to try to wipe my tears before they fall, to muster up the courage to stand tall—head up, feet grounded. It is our duty to write and talk about these realities, in hopes of trying to open someone’s eyes to actually See color, and not ignore it this time.
I Support color by buying from Black-owned businesses, by making people’s dreams come true. I Support color, knowing that they are struggling. They need this to feed their families. If they are struggling and I am struggling, how can we build an empire of Black Excellence? We need everyone to support: to buy from your Black sister’s handmade jewelry shop, to buy from the Black kid’s lemonade stand at the corner of the street, to buy from your Black friend’s homemade hair care serums, to buy from your Black brother’s sneaker reselling business. We need to support each other for the culture. When one falls, we all fall. When one makes it, we all make it. No ifs, ands, or buts.
I Love color for the same reasons why some people hate color. I Love color when seeing Black children make it out of the ghettos, make it past their “broken homes,” and make it big in the future—not just in sports—but by using their education to become Black doctors who save lives, or Black lawyers who actually hold people accountable in this judicial system, or Black teachers who motivate Black students to excel in their studies. I Love color when seeing different shades of Black and Brown holding hands, filling me with hope of finding someone to share my life with. People fail to see the real Beauty in being Black, but that’s why I embrace it even more. Why try to be basic like everyone else, when you can be different, you can just be you. Periodt.
A double crime: I am at the forefront, breaking the wind for the rest of the Black runners coming behind me. I am at the forefront of the long marathon to winning “Black Success.” I am leading the way and paving the path for future generations of little Black girls who will follow in my footsteps. When they grow up, they don’t have to think, “Why does anyone not look like me?” I will pass the baton to them so that they can keep running the marathon.
I AM the definition of color. Mixed with Black and Brown blood. As a person of color, I no longer just See color. I live it. All I Feel is color. All I Speak is color. All I Breathe is color. All I Hear is color. All I Taste is color. All I wear is color. All I do is color. So for you to say that you don’t see color, means that you don’t see me.
In the picture above, the author, Asiyah Muhammad, attends a rally promoting peace and unity after the death of George Floyd.
Photo credit and link to an article on the event featured in NJ.com:
Bio:
Asiyah Muhammad (Aa-see-yah Moo-hum-mud, She/Her) is from Hillside, NJ, and is currently a sophomore student at Rutgers SEBS, majoring in Biology and minoring in Health & Society. She is an activist and athlete, and she aspires to become a dentist and a poet. She has won the 2018 Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, where she was a Gold Level Winner in NJ for her poem “The Outlier.” Her most recent writing award was the Creative Nonfiction Essay Award in the 2020 Rutgers Winter Creativity Showcase for her essay “A Double Crime.”