James E. Millner

 The day I decided to write to you, I was sitting in class, under the strict gaze of an instructor who did not like me. And it felt as if this woman only sought to more deeply drown me in my own anger, anger not only at her, but at the entirety of the world. I loathed this world, the world in which had come to live. But in this, I also realized how much I missed you. So I write to you now, hoping that I may, through the mysterious power of words, feel closer to you. 

I cannot say why she felt this way, my instructor, but it was fairly obvious she disapproved of me. My comments in class would only be met with criticism, my silence only met with a prodding to participate. In both instances, her motive appeared to be the same, as if she were attempting to root out some potential threat to her class order that had still yet eluded her. Again, I do not know why this was, but it was something that began on the very first day. A single teacher’s disapproval seems a small thing on its surface. One only has to endure any instructor for a short while before one is free to go home and be free of that particular individual’s annoyances. However, I saw her opposition to my person a small piece of something much larger, something that sought to do me in. 

I knew that I was in a situation in which I had no power. By power I do not mean one’s ability to hold dominion over another. I merely mean one’s wish to hold dominion over one’s own self, to be able to determine one’s own destiny without being constantly knocked down. To me, in that moment, that instructor seeked to rob me of such autonomy, and I was tired of having that stolen from me again and again.

But you will begin to understand in due time the unfortunate fact that to be brown is to constantly be defending one’s own autonomy, because nearly every corner of the world seeks to take it. Whether it be in the classroom or simply on the sidewalk, a brown boy such as I, such as you, will always be confronted with threats to his way of life. You do not see how different you are now, but it will come. 

I assure you that I find no comfort in this fact, only anger. I struggle each and every day at a university that does not understand me, surrounded by people who do not understand me. To be brown at a white university is to be alienated from the get go. Most will not see your struggle, nor care to. And those that do care often seem to care in the wrong way, seeing you as someone to be pitied and saved rather than simply as human. You will try to combat this as you try to combat everything. You will work hard and educate yourself, plan your arguments soundly and use your words as weapons to advocate for your own experience. But such efforts will fail.

But I cannot say what part of me alienates me beyond this. I have tried to form relationships  in perhaps all manners of people. But, the flawed condition of humanity rears itself each time, leaving me in a different form of disappointment. I feel that I possess a unique suffering in this, an inability to succeed in friendship, or even to find reliable comfort in any particular company. I cannot say I feel completely alone. I have our mother. I have our father. I have my lovely Lauryn. You will adore her in due time. But Frankly, beyond them, the only one I feel who understands me is you. You and the Lord. Yes, He is real. He is real and he must always be real, both for me and for you. I wish I could encourage you that those who also believes in him will be different, that they will shower you with some secret divine love only accessible to those who find a way in Jesus.. But even they will disappoint you. 

But, despite this, we must believe. Because if we do not, then we are truly lost. Lost not in the sense of finding your way through the maze of your own faith, but lost at sea without a keel to steer us towards any sense of comfort, lost to an emptiness that you have not yet come to know but that I know all too well. 

I dream often of the days when you would make friends with your inanimate play things, giving them life and breath, taking them through their adventures daily. Somehow, they would cross over the boundaries of their own respective universes to meet within the universe orchestrated by your small brown fingers. The story, from then on, is and always was yours. 

It may begin with a hero in tights attempting to save his lover from descending down the towering bookshelf. Or perhaps it began with two adversaries engaging one another atop our father’s desk. Or it began with an intense race of miniature cars across the carpet floor. No matter the narrative, a fight is inevitable, a fight or rather a clanging of plastic. But, you undeniably believe that those you hold in your hands are trustworthy and will never forsake you. They are your closest friends. I miss them. 

When I am in shopping centers, I find myself meandering to the toy aisle more often than I care to admit, even to you, hoping that it will transport me back in time. I would no longer be a man, but a boy, no longer myself, but you, standing there holding our mother’s hand, begging her to purchase some small play thing for us. But my wish is never granted and I am thrown back to dead eyes of small action figures that I once saw so much life in, wanting so vehemently to purchase one myself in order to take it home with me, to cherish it, to give it life, to pretend I was still you. 

You do not realize how good you have it. Your world is beautiful and only what you wish to make it. It is quiet like that of some chilly December morning, yellow sunshine glowing over the dew-drenched grass. It is soft like the sound of the paintbrush scratching as the painter works a white canvas. It is unapologetic and lovely.  

But it is also dying, either that or it is already dead. I have tried to resuscitate it whenever I feel it slipping away, combating adult responsibility with a further infatuation with comic heroes, video games, and other fantasies that you held so dear, as if I am trying to save the life of a dear friend, weeping as I kneel over the body, violently beating the chest for some sign that all is not lost. But I’m afraid I have failed in this, leaving behind some place that is much less pretty. You would not like it here. 

It pains me to even lament such things to you. I do not wish to be the bearer of bad news, even to my own self. I also do not wish to ruin your moment. I would rather ask that you simply make the most of it for both your sake and mine before it ends. But I also do not wish to see you hurt as I was, to see you hope so deeply in a humanity that does not exist and to be so disappointed when that hope turns sour. 

However, I know that one day we will find solitude in an existence beyond both your world and mine, one that is much more beautiful than either. We will ascend to heaven, leaving behind everything that has broken and marred us. There, I will run to you. I will hug you and kiss your forehead and pick you up into my arms. Our mother will be there. Our father will be there. Our lovely Lauryn will be there. But, most importantly, our holy father will also be there. He will embrace us both. He will whisper “my boys, my boys.” as he laughs and kisses us and we will become one again, one for all eternity.