SandScript 2021

STYGIAN
Chretien Martinez
Non-fiction
The damage that has been done
to the minds of young black men may be
irreversible. We stand as these beasts of
burden, told that we may carry our weight
freely, but is it truly freedom that has been
given to us? Too often we meet men who
wish to block our paths, spit in our faces,
dishevel our spirits, and drive us to an
everlasting anguish - a White Death.
Our color, black. It is synonymous
with evil; the black plague, the black
devil, the black expanse of space - airless,
breathless, a backdrop for the glorious
white stars which grab the eye’s wonder
and the mind’s affection. We are but the
void - nothing, vacuous. Our minds do not
contemplate, nor do they ponder upon
philosophies, or meanings, or emotion.
What is the gloaming without its gloom?
We drag our knuckles not from
stupidity, but from the overbearing eye
of he who has placed such heavy weight
on our shoulders. Could those veiled eyes
beam gossamer then, and touch my
rejected flesh?
This existence isn’t pure. This life we
live is not one of lascivious reverie. Our
very hearts have been ripped from our
chests and compared to those who deem
themselves of the highest form - what
conclusions did they draw? They drew
the ones which allowed them to treat us
as ogres - not human enough to respect,
but close enough to fill with disease. Do
I even value myself? For the Son of the
Father now has blonde hair and blue eyes
for that mythical Aryan to kiss his feet and
feel emboldened. For this image does
the intellectual racist serenade his flock
with scientific riddles, filled with the jargon
of imperial justification - oh, if they only
knew how much we could love them, our
brothers! If only they knew how strongly
we yearn for an eternal embrace.
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