And They Will Know

No. No. No. That's all I've ever heard. All. My. Life. No. All anyone ever told me was "No." "No, you can't sit here." "No, you can't walk in the front door." "No, you can't drink from this water fountain." Every "No" was like a bullet through my skull; a sharp, stinging pain that echoed throughout my brain and reminds what I can and cannot be. According to them. Has anyone ever asked me what I thought? Has anyone ever supported me in my dreams? Has anyone ever stopped to think about whether or not I can speak for myself? No. Because they don't understand what it's like to be told "No." They don't like to hear the word "No." But they say it as if it's the only word they know. Well, it's time they learn. This time, we'll say "No." It starts with four. Then twenty. Then three-hundred. It will spread across the county, across the state, across the country. And they will never see it coming. And they will know. Just because we're different doesn't mean that we don't deserve the same respect. Just because our skin is dark doesn't mean we should be separated from the rest. We will make them understand. And they will know. We will not use violence. We will not use force. We will prove to them that we are not who they think we are. And they will know. They think they know peace. They think peace is segregation, peace is leaving us be without letting us be. They think that we will live like this forever, ignored, left behind in their shadows, allowing our rights to pass us by like the the leaves in the wind. No. We won't. And they will know.