Imagine, just for a moment, if you could step into the shoes of a Black person for a week. Not as a costume, not as a trend, but as a full-fledged experience—one that you could never simply take off. In those seven days, you would see what you’ve never seen before, feel what you’ve never felt before, and understand what you could never fully grasp from the outside looking in.
You would wake up knowing that, before you even speak, before anyone knows your name or your intentions, you are already judged. You would see how the world perceives you—not as an individual, but as a monolith, a stereotype, a walking assumption. Your intelligence, kindness, and humanity would all take a back seat to the societal script written for you long before you were born.
You would experience racism in ways that aren’t always loud or obvious, but in the subtle, quiet ways that cut just as deep. The way store clerks follow you around. The way people clutch their bags when you walk by. The way job interviews seem to go well until they “go in a different direction.” The way the justice system isn’t built for your protection but your punishment
As a Black man, you would see how society has been structured to dismantle your community while making you bear the blame for its struggles. You would see how your women have been conditioned to see you as unreliable or dangerous, how your children are viewed as threats before they even understand the weight of their own skin. You would feel the isolation of trying to prove yourself worthy in a world that has already decided that you are not.
And at some point, after the repeated rejection, the constant battles, and the unrelenting weight of it all, you might come to a breaking point. You might have to build up the mental and emotional armor to simply say, “Fuck the world,” not because you want to, but because you need to—just to survive. You might become numb, because caring too much would only lead to more pain.
The saddest part? No one would stop and say, “Let’s be fair.” No one would pause to ask, “What if we judged this person not by their skin, but by their heart, their efforts, and their character?” Instead, you would be measured by a standard that was never meant for you, one that sees your existence as a challenge to the status quo, as an inconvenience, or worse, as a threat.
And that is the point..
Black people are people too
This isn’t a plea for pity. It’s a call for understanding. Because the truth is, not all white people are racist, and not all are directly responsible for oppression—but ignoring the reality of it is its own form of complicity. Looking away, staying silent, or pretending the problem doesn’t exist only serves to reinforce the very system that allows this experience to continue.
If you could truly be Black for even just a moment—not a full week, just a single day—you would feel everything you don’t feel right now. You would understand the exhaustion, the frustration, and the resilience it takes just to exist in this skin. You would know, without a doubt, that this is not an experience you would ever choose.
The world doesn’t need more bystanders—it needs allies. It needs people willing to change the perception of what defines a person, beyond race, beyond history, beyond fear. Because at the end of the day, the truth is simple: We are all human. We all deserve to be seen. And we all deserve to be free.
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