An American. Defined to be one of the best of the best. In America, you're either American or you're not in the country.
Better if you're pale skinned, blue eyed, and blonde hair colored. A Tyrant. A cruel and oppressive ruler. A white man. A person exercising power or control in a cruel, unreasonable, or arbitrary way.
The American flag staring back at eyes as if it were a ghost haunting my very soul. As if our ancestors themselves where still picking at the flag itself. Even as my heritage shows a different flag, I still feel the 50 stars on my back.
My skin being defined as aggressive. My hair not professional enough for the white man. And my life to be one judged by all around me.
An American. Born into a promise that only stretches for some. Raised under a flag that speaks of freedom while holding its own quiet rules. In this country, you are either welcomed or you are warned. Either celebrated or inspected. Either claimed or pushed to the margins.
The ideal American still wears a pale mask. Still carries blue eyes that never had to second guess their reflection. Still holds blonde hair like a golden ticket. Power sits easily on that image. It never apologizes for itself. It never wonders why the world bends in its direction. A tyrant does not need a throne when the whole landscape is shaped for him.
The flag watches from every corner. It hangs in classrooms, courtrooms, front yards, and fading billboards. Its stripes stretch like a story repeated until everyone is expected to believe it. Its stars glare softly, asking for loyalty before offering belonging. For some, it is a symbol of pride. For others, it is a reminder. A ghost of promises given to one hand and taken from another.
Descendants who once tore at cotton now feel the threads of that same flag brushing their backs. A history that refuses to stay buried. A country built on contradiction that still expects silence from those who live inside its shadow. Even when a different heritage pulses through the veins, the weight of those fifty stars presses down with steady force.
Skin becomes prophecy. Darker tones labeled dangerous before the first breath is spoken. Hair judged as unruly or unfit because it does not lie flat under someone else's standard. Lives measured by rules never meant for them. Eyes learning to read a room before learning to read a book. Voices trained to soften themselves to survive a world that insists it hears nothing wrong.
The tyrant is not a single man. The tyrant is the gaze. The assumption. The quiet belief that some bodies are built for ownership and others for obedience. It grows in the spaces between words, in the questions asked too often, in the opportunities withheld without explanation.
A land that promises liberty still carries a heavy hand. The mark of it settles on the shoulders of those who walk through it with skin that tells a different story. The chapter begins before any character enters. The world itself sets the rules. The world itself draws the line.
The black man having a story without being able to live yet. His life span being able to be counted on two sets of hands. His one taken for granted and taken by one not of his kind. His head down to the ground, his light unspoken, his truth unread and his family untouched but by his absence and why his leave.
The world hates us. The world will see us.
