Currently, I’m sitting at my desk in a position I hold as a house manager, overseeing staff who care for three “intellectually disabled” white women. I’m in the middle of reading this book called Caste by Isabel Wilkerson, and it has fueled some feelings that I can’t seem to ignore.
Right now, we are amidst a critical point in history. We have a Caucasian president who had no credentials to support the role the first time he was elected, and now he is overseeing our country again. The United States of America, which is supposed to be the land of the free—although it has been everything but that—is also the only place I have ever known and refer to as home.
I am an African American woman and 37 years old—two truths that deem me to be considered part of a “marginalized group.”
I’ve never felt the effects of the boxes I must check when identifying myself on paper for one reason or another. The facets of history I’ve watched movies about, briefly reviewed in classes, read a few books on, and heard a plethora of stories from elders, family, and friends in reference to my race and the degradation that my ancestors were subjected to—never really quite touched me beyond a feeling that went away once the film came to an end, the bell rang, or the last chapter was read and the book was closed.
However, now feels so close, it’s breathing on my neck. The small hairs located in that area stand up straight and send chills down my back.
I try to take a trip down memory lane, attempting to capture the lessons I learned about the subject, and nothing comes to mind. It’s as if I regarded these terrible periods of the past as fictional stories to keep myself busy—so cozy in the space that, literally, my people died for me to comfortably relax in. Even though I question if the “history” I was allowed to be taught—crafted in a system that sits upon the very shoulders of those who created race theory to keep themselves superior—is even remotely correct, I could have paid more attention. I could have at least taken notice of the fact that we were never far away from slavery or as close to freedom as the façade I encounter and partake in willingly each day suggests.
I’m ashamed to say that it took a white man who bought his way to the highest seat in America—the same as every other who’s had the opportunity—but this time, one who so proudly shouts that his sole priority is to “Make America Great Again!” All while moving in the direction of reversing the “rights” it appears have been awarded to said marginalized people and ridding the country of democracy, carrying us into an authoritarian-ruled government.
As I sit back and carefully remove all the bricks that were built to block my view of the kind of world we truly live in, I realize that’s what it has always been. But this president? He said, “It’s time to take off the blindfolds and behold the set you stand on—remember what act your character is ‘supposed’ to be playing.”
With that being said, I pick up overtime hours at work, which puts me in direct care of the said individuals I spoke of at the beginning—ones who belong to this heinous group of people. And sometimes, I personally feel the stronghold of beliefs that were imprinted in their minds seeping their way into our interactions.
When I’m doing my job and one of them gets angry because they feel I’m in a position of power, and I am no one to listen to. Or when one consistently repeats that we have things in common, and when asked what they are, they reference their half-Black nieces and nephews—when I thought they meant “thought process” or “the same soul.”
Reading this book makes me think—if I had a heart like their ancestors, I would set this house on fire in retaliation for mine.
But the heart I have—the one I believe comes from God itself—I don’t think I could ever exhibit such behavior unless forced to do so. And even then, I’m almost certain my spirit would hold me in contempt.
Here is another example of the paradoxical labyrinth we all exist in.
Feeling like we are getting ahead, but standing still.
Feeling like a community of people representing all shapes, sizes, colors, cultures, and creeds from different spaces and stations of the world—but never more separate than a constellation. Bound by the same sky, yet destined to remain apart.
The most fucked-up part of everything happening right now?
It isn’t just the division between races—it’s that my own people, Black people, feel more disconnected than we’ve ever been.
I want to love everyone. I want to exist in a world where that love is natural, mutual, and safe. Because for so long, I believed that was the world I was a part of.
But the harshest reality I’ve had to accept is that there are definite lines of separation. Lines I didn’t draw—but ones I am forced to acknowledge.
And because of them, I should be able to lean on those who look like me. I should be able to trust in our unity.
But I can’t.
I’m scared of my own brother. I can’t trust my sister in color to see the cages we are bound to. And even if they do recognize we’re trapped—can I trust what they’ll do to escape?
Will they tear me down for their own survival?
Will I be the sacrifice they offer just to taste the illusion of freedom?
Right now, I don’t even want a young Black boy walking behind me at night—not because of the lies they tell about us, but because of the truth I’ve seen play out too many times. That he might kill me for the little money I don’t have.
Money that doesn’t even belong to us.
Money that lacks the very value we place on it—so much so that we are willing to eradicate our own race, making the oppressor laugh themselves to sleep.
I feel like I’m suffocating in a fishbowl. Drowning. Watching the world move carelessly outside of it while I swallow each drop of water alone.
Trying to find a reason to fight.
Trying to find a group willing to battle—
Not just to escape, but to break the cycle entirely.
Sincerely F.R.
Written on 2/19/25
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