The Skin I’m In
By: Paul Marsh
Tags: BlackLivesMatter, Racism, Discrimination, Storytelling, Hate

Trayvon Martin, a seventeen-year-old shot by an adult man for wearing his hoodie. Eric Garner, killed by NYPD officers after articulating several times that he couldn’t breathe. Michael Brown, an eighteen-year-old African-American fatally shot in Ferguson, MO. Tamir Rice, a twelve-year-old boy shot in Cleveland for carrying an airsoft gun. Ahmaud Arbery, a twenty-five-year-old African-American killed while peacefully jogging in South Georgia. And George Floyd, a Minnesota native who was killed after an officer of the law knelt on his neck for 8 minutes, 46 seconds.

All of these individuals, like myself, are African-Americans. Like Ahmaud Arbery, I myself am a twenty-something-year-old black male with ties to the South. Reading his story, I couldn’t help but feel as if his passing could have been me. I empathized with his family, having been in countless situations myself where my skin color seemed to be the justification for various forms of maltreatment.

These deaths, and the countless others that have occurred before them, are why I remain fearful in America. Factor in my own experiences with those inclined to embrace prejudice, discrimination, and racism to varying degrees, and you have a recipe for deep-seeded fearfulness. It’s no wonder African-American men grapple with mental health woes more than any other group in the United States. The burden our blackness brings on is a difficult one to bear.

Being black in America seems to come with a set of issues that are exclusive to the black population. When I try to unpack my own experiences with prejudice and racism, I realize that the problems those around me have had with me were seldom about the content of my character. They were fueled by my color, a color that some individuals choose to see as a threat to their ability to thrive and survive. In spite of this, black people are people too.

Media sensationalism has made it possible for the country, and at times the world, to look at us through a negative narrow gaze, one that is the direct result of preconceived notions, stereotypes, and fearmongering — all centered on dehumanizing individuals like me because of our looks. From my vantage point, it’s the reason minority men like me are perceived as dangerous, even though we have the same goals, dreams, desires, and ambitions as everyone else. The darker the complexion, the more likely one is to experience hostility, exclusion, and hatred on a variety of fronts.

It baffles me how the color black can be readily and holistically received in every way but the one that matters most — people. I know of individuals who embrace black in all forms, yet discriminate against people who identify with that color on a racial basis. It leaves me at a loss for words.

I’m longing for the day when my complexion no longer feels like a burden, like when I was young and believed the biggest differences between African-Americans and Caucasians (or any one ethnic group for that matter) was how their skin tasted. I long to be able to be defined by more than my complexion. Judge those around you by the content of their character, not their skin color. Doing so will show you that there’s more the human species shares in common than divides us. Maybe then the skin I’m in will no longer feel like an inherent crime in itself.

This story was originally published on GoodMenProject.com.