CAN YOU SEE ME?
By
Elmer Morris
As a black man in America, I often sit down and ask myself this question, even though I love America: “How does this country see me, and who and what do they see me as?”
Everyone I see who has my complexion or skin color is seen with no value or voice. I see people who resemble me, but they are puppets with strings attached that someone else is controlling.
I know this because when I see black representation, they have a script in hand with words prepared for them to read and pronounce that someone else gave them, with expressions or thoughts that do not show an understanding of blackness and black culture in America.
Every street, every building, every road, and everything in this country contains a history of my people’s blood, sweat, and tears within it, and yet very few museums and monuments are built to honor that.
My people’s mark on this country is not spoken about, as if it is something to look for in dark, secret places. I search for them, as though I am on a treasure hunt trying to find some last hidden secret.
“Why is this?” I continue to ask myself day by day.
As a black man in this country, I am infused with so many characteristics and identities that my own person-hood has become like a body of water: a light liquid with very small density, the depth of which is beyond sight.
