I stand up. Walk over to the podium. I look over at my classmates and my heart begins to pound so loudly I can hear it in my ears. Thump, Thump. Thump, Thump. I feel like it’s going to jump right out my chest and onto the podium in front of me. My hands shakily grab for my piece. I do not want to read this in front of the class.
A black empowerment speech in front of a classroom of white faces? I am terrified.
I slowly begin my speech. I could hear my voice crackle and shake over every word. The words that were meant to be empowering sounded childish and cowardly. I had failed. I walked back to my seat in utter defeat.
Afterwards my teacher and fellow classmates survey and edit my speech. My defeat and embarrassment turned to anger and frustration. First at myself, then my teacher and class, then at God.
I was mad that I had not delivered my speech with the appropriate tone. I was mad at my teacher for cutting away at my beautifully crafted words. And then I was mad at God for constantly putting me in these situations to begin with.
It was His fault that no one understood the gravity of my piece. It was His fault that I will constantly be put in situations where I am the only minority in the room. It was His fault that I am black.
After class, two inquiring students asked me questions on my speech and then encouraged me to continue writing about these topics. Their kind words slowly began to dissipate my anger.
God had done it again. I was angry at him and He continued to love me. At a low point He sent people to show me why He had made me. He made me strong, opinionated, beautiful, and black.
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