This piece was commissioned as part of the In Our Own Words series, which seeks to share the voices and experiences of marginalized individuals. You can find all of the pieces in this series here.

By Naomi Akira

I have sat so many times across the desk from a bishop. Just waiting for the ball to drop. Waiting to be deemed unworthy. Knowing, that as a young black woman, I have to work exponentially harder to prove myself deserving. My throat tightens and my head throbs. 

I want to scream.
I want to scream. 
I want to scream.

I have sat so many times across the desk from my judge, jury, and executioner. Just waiting for the ball to drop. Waiting to be told I can’t continue at school. Waiting for all I have worked for to be ripped away from me. But I smile politely. I sit, legs crossed uncomfortably. I hope my hair has cooperated. I hope that I look put together. I hope I look suitable. But my brain rages against those words. 

It screams.
It screams.
It screams.

I don’t feel put together. I feel tamed. Like every curl gelled down into place is desperately clinging on for me. I don’t feel suitable. I feel colonized. Like I can smile away a complicated history. Thank away my difference. Like this pretty dress is enough to pretend away problems like church leaders have done for years. I want him to see me as “one of the good ones.” I want him to feel like I am different. I want him to see that I am obedient. My heart rages this time. It beats against my ribs and begs me to stop. 

It screams.
It screams.
It screams.

I don’t know how to tell it to calm down. That I don’t mean it. I don’t know how to tell my heart that if it beats too loud it might be called “ghetto”. I don’t know how to tell it that if it moves too quickly it might get hurt. I want to apologize to it for the battering it takes again and again. But I stay quiet. I am mindful of my courtroom manners while I am sitting on trial, but my lungs burn.

They scream. 
They scream.
They scream.

I want to tell them to be cool. That if they burn too bright, he might see the fiery anger within me. That I might be questioned further. I want to tell my lungs that boiling over in this seat won’t just hurt me. That if I get too hot it will inevitably burn every other black person around me. That they might all be treated differently. 

I am sitting across the desk from my judge, jury, and executioner. I am waiting for the gavel to drop. I am praying that I win this trial. I am praying that my brain doesn’t stop working. That my heart doesn’t break before the sentencing. I am praying that my lungs can keep breathing. I don’t know how much longer my body can hold out. I don’t know when it will call upon me for justice for forcing it through this. Every part of me wants to be near you God, but I don’t think I can survive this trial again.

Naomi is a Master’s in Public Administration student at BYU’s Marriott School of Business. She enjoys reading, writing poetry, and being at the beach.