If Anybody Should Cross the Street, It Should Be Me
By Jarvus Ricardo Hester
She crossed the street.
Didn’t look me in the eye.
Clutched her purse.
Made a decision —
not based on fact,
not based on who I am,
but based on the skin I live in.
And I stood there for a moment, not angry — just awake.
Awake to the fact that no matter how I move, no matter what I’ve built,
fear always gets to arrive before my humanity.
And I wondered…
Do you know who I am?
Not in an arrogant sense.
Not because I think I’m better than anyone.
But because I know what I’ve given.
I know what I’ve survived.
I know what I’ve earned.
I’m a classically trained opera singer.
I’ve sung in halls across this country with a voice passed down through generations of struggle and grace.
I’ve founded organizations to serve my community.
I’m the editor-in-chief of a magazine that celebrates Black life — not just our trauma, but our triumph.
I’ve told stories, raised up others, fought for healing, built bridges where there were none.
And yet — to you, I was just another silhouette on the sidewalk.
Another figure to fear.
Another Black man too close.
And what breaks me… is that I know I’m not alone.
You don’t have to know my résumé to respect me.
You don’t have to know my story to treat me like a human being.
But it says something —
when you never even try to see me first.
You just… recoil.
You move away from me —
but do you even realize what I’ve had to move through just to stand here?
Let’s talk honestly.
If anyone should be crossing the street…
it should be me.
Because history says when you feel “uncomfortable,” we get handcuffed.
When you feel “unsafe,” we get killed.
When you feel “out of place,” we get priced out, pushed out, or buried.
We didn’t create this fear —
but we live under it.
We didn’t ask for these wounds —
but we carry the weight.
And still,
you fear me.
You fear that I might take something from you —
while living in a system that took everything from us.
Let me ask it this way:
Why do you fear the ones who have fed you?
Who nursed your babies while ours were sold?
Who cooked your meals, styled your fashion, set your trends, scored your soundtracks —
and still walked past you with grace?
How can you fear me
while wearing my culture,
streaming my music,
eating from the recipes we were never allowed to publish?
And you’re afraid that all Black people steal from you…
while you want us to cook for you,
clean for you,
keep your kids,
design your clothes,
style your hair,
write your headlines,
entertain your boardrooms.
You want us to make you feel good —
but not powerful.
You want us to shine —
as long as we don’t own the light.
It don’t make no sense.
And we’re done pretending that it does.
So the next time I walk past you,
don’t lower your eyes.
Don’t cross the street.
Don’t reach for fear like it’s your birthright.
Reach for truth.
Reach for reflection.
Reach for the part of you that’s still human — and let it meet mine.
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