Into the Fog

I’m forcing the tide back. Bracing with both hands against the swell of a wave threatening to swallow me. Somehow feeling both nothing and everything, at the same time.  Within me is something aching to scream. To rage. To beat my fists against the door of heaven until something or someone acknowledges the enormity of what I feel.  

The door doesn’t budge. Perhaps the weight is too much even for the divine.  

I’ve always felt, sometimes malignantly, other times faintly, the exacting pressure of being pushed into a cage. There’s an expectation to be “this” or “that.” I’ve said, jokingly, that I need to be an “Ambassador for black people.” I live in  a place where there are so many people who don’t look like me, and so the weight of how I carry myself, what I say, or what I do, takes place in front of an unwelcome audience. 

Don’t be the angry black man. 

Don’t yell. Don’t rage. 

Don’t talk like that. Don’t behave like that.  

And yet... 

There are moments where the color of my skin screams louder than I realize. Just when I reach a point where I think that perhaps the world can see me instead of the color of my skin, I am reminded. The powers that be want people like me to be both invisible, yet also “useful.”  

“Work hard but remain in the darkness. Bloom, yes, but not in the daylight. We’re uncomfortable with that. We’re uncomfortable with truth that speaks too loudly. So don’t remind us of what’s real. Don’t remind us of how boldly you exist. No. Instead, fit neatly into the box we’ve made for you, and don’t you dare step outside of it.”  

Since when has Truth become so malleable? When was the heart of what’s right and true and good changed from rigid stone, and instead transformed into putty in the palm of the beholder’s hand? Why do we so willingly sunder what should bind us together? Are we not all subject to the human condition? Do we not all walk this earth knowing that someday we will be reunited with the very dirt we came from? So then why do we treat others as though they’re made from something different? Why is it so damn difficult to look at our brothers and sisters and see a reflection of ourselves instead of something “other?”  

It’s strange to see myself as someone who doesn’t want to stay inside the box, yet also, I disqualify myself from ever reaching for dreams. It feels as though my soul rages against the bars surrounding it, screaming, “I am more than this! I am more than what they make me to be!” Yet, I am the one also hushing it, saying, “I am not unique enough. My story cannot reach others.”  

That voice. 

Not the one which whispers in favor of “raging against the dying of the light,” but instead embraces “going gentle into that good night.”  

It’s easier to discount one’s own worth. It’s easier to succumb to the shape of the box. It’s easier to stop rattling the bars of the cage and sit quietly. To “coast,” until the dreams which once shone bright like hand-painted images become blurry like runny watercolors, losing all shape and form. Until at last, we look at those unfamiliar colors and ask, “What dream was this? I don’t remember.”  

Inside of so many of us is a caged bird that has forgotten it ever had wings in the first place.  

There came a point where those wings were clipped. We submitted to the force of the world, and the voice telling us to fit neatly inside the box. We at last listened to the voice that spoke with a false sweetness: 

“This is just the way the world works. Accept it. Submit to it. It’s easier to muzzle yourself and forget how powerful your voice is.” 

No. 

No. 

It’s all these things which I feel myself bracing against. I’m at the edge of a cliff, and there’s a voice speaking from below with that false sweetness. “Let go. Fall into the void. It’s easier.”  

The trouble is, even when I muster the strength to turn away from the chasm and the voice which speaks from it, the path away from the cliff isn’t clear. It’s shrouded in fog. The wind howls, and the sky above offers little promise. Holding up my feeble lantern of hope to light the way seems almost laughable. The light is small. Flickering. The wind threatens to extinguish it. Voices from the fog whisper not encouragement, but doubt.  

“Are you strong enough for this?” 

“You’ve never had the discipline.” 

“You will struggle. You will fail. Do you really want to feel that pain?” 

“You’re one black man in a world that would rather see you disappear.” 

Despite the storm, the fog, the flickering light of the lantern and the looming chasm at my back, the most poignant feeling is the one stirring in my chest. A bird, flapping furiously against the iron bars. The voice screaming to be heard. My soul, still stirring, still whispering about a peaceful, beautiful land beyond the fog and beneath sun-kissed skies.  

So, with my flickering lantern and unsteady feet, I step forward. Not toward the chasm, but into the fog.