When I wear my Black Lives Matter t-shirt, I’m self-conscious
then I forget about it
a middle-aged white man keeps staring
a woman my age stares and looks away and stares back to make sure she’s seen what she thinks she’s seen.
And then I feel a bottomless well of pride for the activists who speak up and walk up and take the microphone and shout up.
I am uneasy simply wearing a shirt.
It’s so easy to say, “They’re activists,” and forget they weren’t always
Black folk don’t give the shirt a second thought.