A letter to my roommate

Dear Terrence, 

You are the best roommate I’ve ever had. You have taught me so much--how to cook, care for plants, meditate, bring positive vibes, love myself, be present, and not do anything I don’t want to do. You taught me how to see alternative realities to the world, how to connect with the universe, and feel a higher power as a co-creator. You are one of my best friends and my spiritual friend and teacher. 

You went to Thailand for a month and I thought half of myself was gone; it was like I was cut in half. You brought back two notebooks made from recycled elephant poop. “For your writing,” you said. Those were the best gifts anyone has ever given me because I knew then that you believed in me as a writer. 

Yesterday, you asked me: “Have you thought about writing something about what’s going on? You could write something about me, and the Uyghurs. You know what I’ve been through; you’ve seen it yourself. Maybe you could use your voice to communicate to others about race.”

So here goes.

You haven’t been given a fair shot. The melanin in your skin made you a target, and on your back you carry the violent trauma of slavery, colonization, and capitalism. 

You witnessed your mom getting beaten and your own family stealing from you. You had to deal with crackheads in your neighborhood. You were the victim of bullies and uncaring teaching, and suffered under a system that only taught to one type of learner. 

You, a man, have also been the victim of violent men and toxic masculinity, a trauma you carry with you to this day. 

You suffered under a system that tries to take you down every step of the way. The word “micro-aggression” doesn’t even begin to cover it. 

I witnessed this myself one day on the bus when a white boy disrespected your space and your body, treating you like you didn’t even exist. When you asked for some space, he reacted in anger and violence, ignorance and stupidity; his own white existence clearly sheltered from the pain of the world while yours had heard the same story way too many times. 

The inequality was clear and obvious that day: If he had hit you, nothing would have happened. If you had hit him, the bus would have stopped, cops would have been called, and you would have been sentenced. 

That night, we got off the bus and walked the two miles home hand-in-hand. You poured your heart out to me. Your childhood trauma due to the ravages of crack given to Black communities as a way to control them. The cartoon character of Biggie on the screens at the concert that night was not fun or funny to you; it was a representation of the way your people have been objectified, exoticized, and relegated to entertainment. The cartoon dishonored the legacy of an artist who had passed away by gunshot wounds way before his time, at the young age of 24. 

These stories are all too familiar to you. 

Terrence, it is true that the world is unfair. The greatest embarrassment and tragedy this world has ever known is the exploitation of the blood and sweat of black and brown bodies for the grossly unnecessary comforts and accumulation of material goods and power of the white person. 

It’s not fair. It really isn’t. 

But you would be the first to tell me: “Be grateful. Stay positive.” 

You are the first to laugh at this whole game. The game of life. You see this ridiculous world and you see the humor in it. And you will be the one always laughing. Because while the white people are living in fear--fear of death, fear of losing power and money--you are living your life in joy and presence, knowing that life is so much better than what material comforts can provide. 

This is what you have taught me and I owe you so much. 

You told me once that you have something to say to the world, but few mediums to do so and nobody to listen. 

I understand that and hope one day you find the way that you can speak and people will listen. The podcast you did was the first step. I hope you do many more. 

In the meantime, know that I’m listening. And you are heard. Know that your wisdom and guidance has changed my life for the better, especially in terms of helping me realize the spiritual side of myself. Your own courage has given me the strength to contribute to a better understanding of race and inequality through my writing and work with the Uyghurs. 

And I know I’m not the only one. 

From your martial arts coaching to your kombucha, you have touched so many lives and I know you will continue to do so. 

For you, COVID-19 was nothing. Compared to the rape and torture of your people for generations and the prisons built to lock up your people, the world-changing trauma that rocked white people’s worlds was nothing to you. 

I couldn’t understand that at first. I saw COVID-19 as a public health and safety crisis. I staunchly defended my morals in the face of it. 

But in my fear, I failed to see a public safety crisis of another magnitude that was right in front of my face the entire time, yet I had chosen to look away. The ongoing “epidemic” that is the murdering of Black people. 

The worst part? For you, the police brutality shown on countless videos was nothing new. “Yup, that’s about right, this has always been happening to my people,” you said. This was your main reaction of the events of recent days. 

And even worse? You want to participate, show your support, and have your voice heard. But you are quite literally scared for your life, knowing that you have a high likelihood of arrest and getting hit with a potentially fatal or permanently damaging rubber bullet. 

Dear White People,

So, white people, it’s our turn. We hid for cover, scared for our lives from COVID-19, blind to the murders that were happening in our backyard. Our privilege and our ignorance was only too obvious to the Black and Brown people who have been murdered for generations under white supremacy. And still, thousands turn out, risking their lives to COVID-19 and police, refusing to be silenced. That is true courage. 

We can’t hide any longer. 

We can’t pretend any longer. 

We can’t be silent any longer. 

It’s our turn to face our fears and live lives of integrity and justice, not in fear but embracing courage and the unknown. 

I’m not saying you, my reader, have to go out and protest. But at the very least, listen and be aware. 

“You have two ears and one mouth,” Terrence always tells me. 

Here are some things you can do:

• Listen and support Black artists, businesses, podcasts, and victims of police brutality
• Read and educate yourself about what’s going on
• Start to dismantle the system by refusing to participate in materialism and consumerism
• Be present
• Be kind
• Love yourself. For loving yourself is the greatest honor of all that you can do for the universe