Nobody told that sandbox toddler that one day she’d be 27 paralyzed in fear triggered by the president of the United States because of racial trauma.
Nobody told her how to take care of her hair. Nobody prepared her to be called nigger.

Nobody told her what the riots were about in Oakland when visiting family in 2009. Nobody told her the name Oscar Grant. Nobody prepared her for the stares and people relocking their car doors as she walked through parking lots.

Nobody told her she might be screamed at by white men driving big trucks just for waiting to cross the street to go to work. Nobody told her that seeing black bodies destroyed at the hands of white power wasn’t just an image of the past.

Nobody prepared her to be the only one who looked like her in the workplace. Nobody told her to expect hair pat downs from TSA.

Not one celebration of her culture. Not one role model presented that represented her. Only parents who would rather preach about Blue Lives and all lives before ever speaking up for their own daughter’s life. Only parents who say “I can’t be racist, look at my child”