Don’t tell me

Don’t tell me you don’t get it.

Don’t tell me you’re a good person.

Don’t tell me that it wasn’t really a thing where and when you were growing up.

Don’t tell me that it’s not your problem.

Don’t tell me I’m too sensitive.

Don’t tell me that you’re a devil’s advocate.

Tell me you get it.

Tell me you’re a shit person. Aren’t we all.

Tell me that you could imagine, empathize, step into someone else’s shoes when you were growing up – no matter rural, urban, suburban – to see how it could be impossible, impossibly difficult.

Tell me that it’s your problem.

Tell me that my sensitivity will change the world.

Tell me you advocate for the devil.

Tell me that Brene Brown’s work on empathy and vulnerability has made a difference.

Tell me that the heightened adrenaline and anxiety and othering go away when we take away the echoes of social media and 24-hour news cycles’ appetites.

Tell me how you topple down centuries of strategic systems doing what they were designed to do.

Tell me how to create joy that sustains the movements.

Tell me we’ll get there in someone’s lifetime.

Tell me us white folks will share power and resources back to those from which these came.

Tell me where to heal the wound, put pressure on the artery, connect head, heart and hands.

Tell me how it ends.

Tell me you see it.

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