Can You Hear Their Heart?

This is a story of life — or maybe call it a fable. It's not about placing blame. It's meant to hold up a mirror. So many of us miss the whole point of another person. We see the color of their skin, the words they choose, the way they carry themselves — and we stop there. We never get to the heart.

A man named James had a daughter named Aurora. She was his first child, from his first marriage.

Aurora was born light-skinned. She looked like she could pass for white. Her mother saw this as a chance. So her mother left James and took Aurora to grow up in white society, hoping it would open doors for her.

James married again. His second wife was darker-skinned, like him. Together they had two more daughters.

Years passed. James never saw Aurora grow up. Then, one day, Aurora's mother died. Aurora was a grown woman now. She had one thing left to do: find her father.

She found James. She hoped for a reunion. Instead, she found anger.

It was a hard time to be Black in America. Black Lives Matter was everywhere. Pain and pride were high. And Aurora — raised in a different world, with different words — didn't speak the way James expected a Black daughter to speak. She used the language of the world she grew up in. Every time she opened her mouth, James heard the wrong words. He didn't hear her heart. He only heard what felt, to him, unacceptable.

He turned her away.

She kept trying. She came back, again and again. Each time, she reached for the right words and came up short. Each time, he judged her for it.

Finally, something in her broke. She grabbed her father's hand and looked him in the eye.

"Shame on you," she said. "You know what it's like to be judged for how you look, for how you talk, for things you can't help. People have done that to you your whole life. And now you're doing it to me."

"Shame on you for judging me by the color of my skin. Shame on you for judging me by the words I choose. I don't always know the right words — I wasn't raised where you were raised. But you know what's in my heart. You know I came here with love. You know I mean you no harm."

"Don't hate me for my skin. Don't hate me for my words. Look at my heart instead. See me. Know me. Know the love I've carried for you all this time."

"Shame on you — for not accepting me. Shame on you — for judging me instead of hearing me."

James stood still, her hand still in his. For the first time, he didn't hear the wrong words.

He heard her.

This story happens to be about race. It could just as easily be about anything else we let divide us.

We do this everywhere — with accents, with slang, with the "wrong" politics, the "wrong" clothes, the "wrong" tone. We treat the surface like it's the substance, and we stop looking for what's underneath.

At the core, we're all the same. We're all trying to be seen. We're all trying to be heard.

Listen, can you hear their heart? It’s ready to be heard.