They said I’m strong and confident

A bold, ambitious, alpha female type

Intimidating; impenetrable; tough as nails,

And I was offended.

I didn’t recognize myself in their eyes.

But maybe you’re the only one who sees

How I giggle like a child when I’m tickled

And blush like a schoolgirl under your gaze

Only you know that I’m soft and sweet

Melting like warm caramel in your hands.

Shhhh maybe they don’t need to know.

I took my river of tears, the bright revelations, the blinding pain, and even the stupid choices

I gathered them all like pieces of cloth and with bloody thread, I stitched together a robe

The epiphanies, the growth, the places I stumbled, the things that brought me shame - all of it - the very bone and sinew of each experience

A beautiful tapestry of vulnerability and honesty and the courage to authentically be. I wrapped myself in that robe. In my own Truth.

And there you stand.

Wrapped in a robe you didn’t even stitch. In a patchwork of platitudes and hallow, pithy memes

Parroting someone else's epiphanies. There is no blood - no sinew.

You’ve hidden your experiences, masked your mistakes, denied your pain. You romanticize your bad choices and gaslight Truth. Yet you stand there in that robe of dishonesty stitched together with lies

And you read my quilt. Judging each blood-drenched thread with superior eyes.

Strange fruit no longer graces the Southern poplar trees

But the stench of acrid gunfire carries on Southern breeze.

Young men, Black men handsome, proud and strong

Cut down. Brought low. Hear now my lamentation song.

Kendrick Johnson.  Trayvon Martin.  Jordan Davis.  Emmett Till.

As when you were in our wombs, my sons, we carry you even still.

In our memories, in our hearts, in the anguish we cannot tell. 

We see you in the eyes of another woman’s child. In the tears we cannot quell.

Foolish hatred.  Senseless murder.  Blatant evil.  Genocide.

Mobs and guns are artificial courage behind which weak men hide.

"Stand your ground" is a lie, a deflection from a spineless man who

In the light of day cannot face what darkness emboldened him to do

Cry aloud, O Sheba! Take up a lamentation song.

Travail anew with birthing pains for our sons too soon gone.

Cry aloud and spare not until your tears reach Heaven’s throne.

He sees, He hears and for his young, dark sons justice will not tarry long!

I am a flower

Thou art the Son

From morn to eve

My heart doth turn

Withersoever in search of Thee

O Thou Who givest Life to me.

Searching, longing, panting for

On occasion touching

Yet desiring still more.

Of that sweet, sweet Presence

In which I’m set free

O Thou Who givest Life to me.

Tears streaming

Knees shaking

Arms trembling

Heart aching

Clothed in rags

Holes in my shoes

Shame behind

Nothing to lose

Standing alone

Day dark as night

His Word in my womb

Prepared to die in this fight

No fear of death

I won’t run from pain

Nothing to lose

My purpose to gain

Through doubt, fear and words

That cut like a knife

Through attacks on my soul

I speak words of Life.

Determination strong

Heart and soul pure

Resolve firm

Victory sure

Like children fear the dark, I fear you

Imposing your blackness upon me like an abyss

Stifling stillness. Too much time. Time to regret

Time to wallow a morass of yesterdays

Absence; quietness ushers me backward

Backward into the corridors of my heart

Portraits line the halls, my face in each

Young eyes full of love, so much hope

Snapshots of ecstasy, just before calamity

I reach out to caress beloved familiar faces…

Ashes smear my fingertips

Blackness. Stillness. So much time….

The hollow echo of broken promises

Reverberates in the stale air

‘I’ll never leave you…’

‘Baby, I love you..’

‘For better or for worse’

‘Until death do us part…’

In the darkness I panic. Pain constricting my throat like smoke

Flailing I reach out for comfort; for whoever’s near

I compromise myself; willing the hands of time to move

Drinking deeply the sweet laudanum to lull away the pain

I awake a year later…

Your blackness greets me.

(begin again)

I look at you and you stun me

When did you become so amazing?

From the ashes of all my mistakes, my shortcomings, my very imperfection

You emerged. All at once a colorful, delicate butterfly and a firefly fierce and bright.

There are those who trap fireflies in jars. I understand the unction - something so impossibly sublime. You just want to hold on to it; never lose it.

But fireflies in jars burn out; expire. I never wanted to see you like a butterfly in a collection - captured, wings pinned, beauty suspended. I wanted you to spread your exquisitely colorful wings and fly - fly to places I might never know.

So I let go. I let you go.

Now I look at you, soaring and you stun me.

Little one, when did you become so amazing?

I am a red-fleshed apple.

It looks ordinary on the outside. I mean, you’ve seen apples before, right? Who hasn’t? Apples are one of the most common fruits known to man. So common, in fact, that although the Bible only references the word fruit in the Garden of Eden story, every artist rendering of that fruit – is an apple. So, basically you say fruit – people think apple.

But this apple – this red-flesh apple is a surprising little fruit. People might pass it by thinking ‘you’ve tasted one you’ve tasted them all’. Their loss. Because those who venture beneath the skin are handsomely rewarded, stunned by the deep, rich texture and the uniquely desirable flavor inside.

I am a red-fleshed apple.

I think it’s the way you smile whenever you see me – I guess that’s what people mean when they say someone ‘lights up’. I should be used to it by now but, still, after all these years, every single time, it takes me by surprise that someone as remarkable as you would be so happy to see someone as unremarkable as I and possess the childlike purity of heart to so freely show it.

Or maybe it’s how genuinely good you are. It puts me to shame. There seems to be a limitless reserve of patience and kindness inside you. So kind and so tenderhearted that it must be painful to live among the rest of us – we who are prone to anger or ambition, who impulsively act on self-pity or petty jealousy while you stand there shining; oblivious that your glow makes us all so keenly aware of our own tarnish.

There are things in life that eat away your soul leaving you invisible. Of these things, I’ve had more than my share. I showed up before you like a refugee, having just weathered the worst sort of these, convinced that everything I’d ever loved about myself, which was never much in the first place, was gone. I was existing behind walls of hurt I’d allowed to entomb me. And yet, in spite of everything, somehow you saw me. You saw me and I was disarmed.

That is why I love you.

There are more handsome men. There are wealthier men too. There are men who rise to the pinnacles of power and influence, at whose command fleets drop anchor or set sail; armies advance or retreat; nations rise and fall. But there is only one man, who, sees a broken, invisible girl and ‘lights up’.

There is only one you.

(I assume by the question that you are white. Forgive me if that's inaccurate. Whether you are or not the opinions in this piece apply.)

I think a better way to phrase the question might be, "Should white writers write characters from other races/nationalities?"

I say this because here in America "other races/nationalities" are completely inundated with images, depictions, writing, and even interactions with the majority race. We see you day in and day out. We work with you, we live around you, we cannot simply choose to not engage with the America’s hegemonic culture, which, at least for the moment, is still white culture.

So, we can write about you without missing a beat for example Grey's Anatomy. The show was on for years before we were all surprised to find it was created and written by Shonda Rhimes, a black woman. It was and is one of the best shows on ABC. So, clearly we can write about you. Because we know you. Whether we've wanted to or not there is no way we can avoid that education. But you can. You can intentionally wrap yourself up in a soft, white blanket and sleep deeply in a world where black and brown hues don't exist.

So, here is my point. If you want to write about characters from other cultures make sure, damn sure that you have, like all writers should, done your research. That includes reading the writing of, talking to members of, actually learning the history and background of, and immersing yourself into the culture you intend to write about. Don't do them, yourself, or your work the disservice of getting it wrong or worse yet offending people because you haven't taken the time to respect the people you're writing about. That would be the mistake of an amateur, right?

Be intentional about getting it right.

BTW, one show that got it so very right with African American characters is This is Us. I was so shocked and pleased with how right they got it so I looked up their writers. Two of the four are African American.