I Don't Want to Be Beautiful by Melanie Alldritt
“I hear my name and “possible gang member.””
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I’m scary at work when I tell a coworker, “My name is Melanie. Not Mel. Call me Melanie.”
I’m scary because I forgot to look at the floor when I said this and instead looked her in the eye. I also forgot to say, “Please,” and, “Thank you.” I didn’t remember to ask in a voice just above a whisper and in a higher octave. But most importantly, I assumed I could tell a person to call me by my name instead of politely asking.
And I wasn’t just wrong, I was terrifying.
I’m suspicious when I go shopping. So suspicious that I need to be followed throughout the store by a person who thinks he’s invisible. He’s as obvious to me as the tampons on top of my produce. I can feel my face getting hot. I think about how I cry when I’m furious or scared. In my head I picture my anger to be a piece of paper that I fold in half over and over again until it is so tiny I can barely see it. It only takes a moment. I am an expert at this.
I’m not looking at the paper in my head when my phone rings in my purse. I’m not thinking about the person following me when I dig through my purse to answer it. But I am thinking about that phone call when I’m at the exit and plainclothes security are going through my purse and checking every item on my receipt.
I’m a gang member when I go running at night.
I’m in a gang because at first I jog slowly, but that isn’t enough for my brain to shut off. So then I jog faster, and then I run, and then I see a hill and I sprint up it and my legs are burning but I’m so happy. I keep running and see lights flashing on houses. I focus on the music blaring in my ears and keep running but then I see flashing lights come in front of me and then jump the curb. I stop. I give the cop my ID. I’m prepared for this. I always carry ID when I run. But then I’m in handcuffs and I’m sitting in the back seat of a cop car that smells like disinfectant and piss and I hear my name and “possible gang member.” I wonder why and I look down at my red shirt red pants red shoes. I’m not at all prepared for this.
When nothing comes up I am let go and told, “You’re lucky.”
I think it’s because I’m running in red so I run in black. I don’t want to be seen. I just want to run. It isn’t enough to run in black because the same cop stops me a week later and I ask if I’m going to be arrested. I am in handcuffs again, but this time sitting on the sidewalk. I must be running from a house I broke into. This is what I’m told.
So I run on the trail at night instead of the sidewalk because I want my legs to hurt, not my head and my heart.
When I talk about these things, I’m aggressive. I’m angry. This is what I’m told so I try to be quieter. Angry Black Women are never heard; they are lost in spectacle and stereotype, never to be taken seriously. In my head I make emotion into kindling and burn it away. Over and over again.
When I speak quietly about these things with burnt to dust feelings, I’m making myself a target. I’m missing the big picture. I haven’t been shot, so I am making a big deal out of nothing. I think about what I’m saying and how I can say it differently.
I try it with smaller words in a different order. But now I don’t know that all lives matter. I’m holding back progress by focusing too much on what’s wrong. I’m pulling the race card, playing the victim, not trying hard enough to not be a stereotype. I’m saying too much. I am depressing people. I hate white people. Racism doesn’t exist, but stupid black people do. These are the things I hear.
What I don’t say is that I’m afraid. But it’s difficult to say the exact thing I’m scared of. I know that I’m afraid when I see a cop car and I’m afraid when I hear the word nigger. I’m afraid I’m scary. Because I don’t want to be scary, but I’m not sure how to not be at all times. I don’t want to be aggressive. I know it’s because my feelings come out in my voice and my feelings make my voice intimidating.
I don’t want to be scary so then I’m afraid to speak. I’m quiet for so long, I wonder if I’m crazy. I ask myself if my perception is wrong. I become curious about whether there is a way to act, a voice to use, a way to shop that will make me invisible. I fantasize about becoming invisible at will. In my mind the idea grows that if I did the right things, I wouldn’t be a target at all.
When I’m thinking, I’m silent. When I’m silent, I’m smiling. I’m careful to look friendly when I’m thinking.
When I’m standing, still and silent and wondering, I hear, “You are so beautiful. I wish I had your skin.”
I hear this again and again and it starts to become truth. But I don’t want to be beautiful. I want to speak.
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Header image courtesy of Nathaniel Evans. To view a gallery of his art on NAILED, go here.
Melanie Alldritt is a tree-climbing Portland native who enjoys playing with fire and long walks on the beach. Her work has appeared in Perceptions, Gravity of the Thing, several bar bathroom walls and is forthcoming from Gobshite Quarterly and the Unchaste Anthology.
