Stigmas

We were seen walking. Our only crime, really.

When the police officer asked, “Is this guy bothering you?”

I watch him, as he glares at my brother’s sagging pants and oversized t-shirt.

I reply, “No sir. Just taking a walk.” He nods and drives his patrol car away slowly and cautiously. And my brother will scowl for the remainder of our stroll.

Like the time we walked into PetCo to buy dog food. The lady in the green-velvet jumpsuit from Wal-Mart will stare as her Chihuahua growls in our direction. She will affectionately whisper, “Aw, do you not like the inter-racial couple?” I can already sense my brother’s tension and I will resist the urge to yell.

Like the time my brother was arrested because he was the only “black kid” in school for a crime that his white “friends” could easily blame him for. Despite what video recorded evidence might say or the alibis presented by me, his sister, it did not matter.

Because he’s black.

I hate it when people say racism is no longer an issue in this country. This is when I want to scream, “BULLSHIT” right in their ignorant faces. Because they have not seen how a small town’s prejudices can emotionally fuck up an individual’s life that festers and pulls everyone along for the ride.

If I had a dime for every time someone asked, “Did you know your brother was black?” I would be a millionaire. People seem to have a hard time grasping onto the fact that a white family is willing to adopt a child of color.

Stereotypes create un-documentable pressures. My brother is seen as gangsta, thug, and nigga: personas he has taken on as identity that was created for him since he was small by a society uncaring.

How could they know? When these social stigmas are all preconceived ideas passed down or portrayed by the media. All they see is the color of my skin in comparison to his.

But maybe if they opened their eyes, opened their minds. All they would see is what I see.

My brother.