The Room Was Painted Before You Arrived

The Room Was Painted Before You Arrived

Someone painted the room long before you walked in. You did not choose the color. You never saw the brush.

Still, you sit in this room every day. You call the color normal. You call it the wall.

Here is the strange part. The paint is still wet. It comes off on your sleeves. You carry it into other rooms without noticing. Other people notice.

A mirror hangs in the hallway. Some people see their whole face in it. Others see only the back of their own heads.

Both groups walk past the same glass. Both assume everyone sees what they see.

Ask the person beside you what the mirror shows. Then believe the answer. That is the first door.

Racism is not always a storm. Sometimes it is a climate. Nobody blames a single raindrop for a flood. Yet the flood is made of nothing else.

So anti-racism is not an umbrella. An umbrella keeps you dry and leaves the street underwater.

Anti-racism is closer to drainage. It is quiet work, done underground, rarely applauded. It asks where the water goes. It asks who lives at the bottom of the hill.

Some words arrived in your mouth already packed. You never chose them. You still carry them.

Unpacking is slow. You open a word. You hold it to the light. You ask who made it and who paid for it.

Some words you keep. Some you set down gently. Some you throw as far as you can.

No final map exists. Every generation redraws the borders of who belongs. Every generation swears the lines are natural, like rivers.

They are not rivers. They are ink.

Ink can be erased. Ink can also be redrawn worse. That is why the work never ends.

Maybe anti-racism is not a place you arrive. Maybe it is a direction you face.

You can face it and still stumble. You can turn away and still look fine.

So the real question is not whether you are good. The question is quieter.

Which way are you facing today?

And what color is the paint on your sleeves?