that others turned into a sentence,
as if blood could have borders,
as if a face could decide
how much a life is worth.
In the streets, I learned
that some names carry more weight than others,
that a glance can become fear,
and that, for some,
my existence needs an explanation.
There were hands that built this country
and never received freedom.
There were backs that carried its wealth
while others wrote
that all men were born equal.
What a cruel irony:
a nation speaking of freedom
while chains existed
where there should have been embraces.
Years passed,
laws changed,
some barriers fell,
but certain wounds
learned how to hide.
They do not always scream in the streets anymore;
sometimes they whisper in an interview,
in a door that never opens,
in a job that never comes,
in a gaze that judges
before it learns your name.
And there are still mothers
who teach their children
not only how to dream,
but also how to survive.
They tell them to stay calm,
to be careful,
to remember that there are eyes
that can turn a simple movement
into a threat.
But no color determines the soul.
Not black.
Not white.
Not any other.
We are the same fragile beings
hidden behind different faces,
the same blood searching for a future,
the same heart
afraid of losing what it loves.
Racism does not disappear
when we stop saying its name;
it disappears when we stop passing it down.
When a Black life
is no longer a debate.
When a last name
does not determine an opportunity.
When skin is simply skin
and not a border.
Perhaps that day,
America will be able to look at its own history
without having to look away.
Because equality
should never be a dream.
It should be the place
where we all begin.