51 Mosquito Bites

I've been trying to think of something meaningful to write about in the last month with everything going on in society. I wanted to show that I was aware of what is going on. I wanted to show that I cared. But everything that I seemed to want to say or thought I should say seemed meaningless.

The other day, a mom dropped off a check to pay for her daughters' piano lessons. I went outside to say hi and we stood outside distanced from each other and talked for what turned into about 30 minutes. During that 30 minutes, I got feasted on by mosquitos: 51 bites. Mosquitos have always been extra attracted to me for some reason - something about certain blood types being more preferable than others. Mine is the most favored apparently. Never in my life have I been bitten this many times at once.

Needless to say, when I came back inside, I immediately washed my legs and feet to relieve the swelling. My husband asked me why I didn't just excuse myself and say I need to go inside because I was getting bit. I'm not sure why I didn't. I think it was a mix of not feeling like she and I were that close in relationship to be able to excuse myself but also that I enjoyed having some adult conversation with someone other than my husband since it happens so rarely now since we don't leave the house except for food.

For the next few days, I felt this insane itching that would continue throughout the day. Occasionally, I'd distract myself with something long enough to forget about it for a while, but it would come back. Sometimes, it was the bites on my feet. Other times it was the bites behind my knees. And sometimes it was the bites on my knees. It was always at least one of them, somewhere, itching, beckoning me to succumb to the feeling and scratch.

When I knelt on the floor to change my daughter's diaper, or sat on the couch, or when my daughter kicked me with her feet when eating, it caused me to think about them. It caused them to be irritated and itch. I'd wake up in the middle of the night scratching, subconsciously. I tried all sorts of home remedies to make the itching stop and wish them to heal. I'd poke them with my fingernails hoping the pain I felt would overpower the itching I felt. 

And then it hit me. These annoying bites, 51 to be exact, were causing me an incessant frustration for more than two days - they haven't healed yet. In the tiniest little way, it allowed me to experience a fraction of what the black people out there feel when they can't leave the house at certain times wearing certain clothes with certain things. It allowed me to experience what it's like to be constantly reminded that there is something to be wary of, a reason to be careful, a reason to fear. 

I read an article online about a boy sharing the rules his mother told him to follow when leaving the house. Some of you may have seen it circulating on social media as well. 

– Don’t put your hands in your pockets.

– Don’t put your hoodie on.

– Don’t be outside without a shirt on.

– Check in with your people, even if you’re down the street.

– Don’t be out too late.

– Don’t touch anything you’re not buying.

– Never leave the store without a receipt or a bag, even if it’s just a pack of gum.

– Never make it look like there’s an altercation between you and someone else.

– Never leave the house without your ID.

– Don’t drive with a wifebeater on.

– Don’t drive with a du-rag on.

– Don’t go out in public with a wifebeater or a du-rag.

– Don’t ride with the music too loud.

– Don’t stare at a Caucasian woman.

– If a cop stops you randomly and starts questioning you, don’t talk back, just compromise.

– If you ever get pulled over, put your hands on the dashboard and ask if you can get your license and registration out.

Someone, male, not black, commented something along the lines of "I was told to follow all these rules, too, growing up. What's so special?"

What's so special? What's so special is that if you, or anyone not black, were to forget to follow one of these rules, it would be an "oops, I messed up" kind of moment. But if someone, black, forgets to follow one of these rules, it may cost him his life. I'm using the masculine pronoun simply for ease of understanding. It's highly possible that black women feel the need to follow these rules (with a few changes) to a certain extent as well for fear of losing their life.

This is a menial comparison when it comes to even trying to begin to feel the pain, frustration, and anger that black people do. But these bites have allowed me to feel just a little bit more for them. 

Are you feeling yet?