Blue Door by Tanya Barfield

When I was a little boy, my father always told me that a man has to protect himself. That those of my color have to be tough to survive. With those talks came the conversations around the dangers of the South. So when my wife says she wants to take a trip to the country. . . Alabama, I’m a little apprehensive.

She says we could go on hikes, tell stories, and that we need to be in nature. Because nature has trees and that’s all you need. But, there are people in the woods that wish to do harm to others.

I told her. Look… I worry, a realistic worry of the people who lurk behind the trees. And may I clarify, the country is filled with a bunch of racists and I believe the concern I have for racists is a realistic concern. No, you aren’t listening to me. I don’t want to go to the country because I’m black.

Before I even say those words, I am suddenly aware of the difference between me and my wife. My wife and I have been married for a long time now but we live very different lives because I can’t fade into the country. There’s no choice attached to my difference, I can’t take a weekend trip without a strained obviousness that I am there. Even if I dress differently, cut my hair differently, or speak differently.

I want to say: I can’t go, I can’t take a trip to the country, I can’t be a part of the trees. I can’t not be black.