Don't Cry for Me

by Daniel Black

Yesterday, or the day before, I passed the full-length mirror in the hallway and saw a skeletal version of myself. I stood there, wondering how this had happened to me, thinking of all the things I’d do differently if I could live again. It was useless thinking, of course. Nothing was about to change. Not for me. There are no do-overs in this life. Either you get it right or you wish you had.

Hurt is worse than anger, you know. Anger dwells in the head, then fades. Hurt lingers in the soul. It rearranges your feelings without your permission. It blinds you.

Many black people left the land in search of an easier life. The swap wasn’t worth it. We got to big cities and realized we had less than we’d had before. The land was our hope, our guarantee that we wouldn’t starve. Once we left it, our lives were up for grabs. Cities devoured us whole.

But adults are always wrong about children’s emotional capacity. Children don’t carry the weight of history, so their capacity for heavy things might be greater. But few adults believe this, so we pass along only what we think they can bear. Children wonder later why we didn’t tell them everything so they could avoid our mistakes.

Knowledge is a funny thing, Isaac. It informs by exposing. It shows you precisely how much you don’t know.