The sun beamed down upon that hill of green. A warm wind brushed against me, moving the blades of grass in its path. They danced from side to side in a joyful jubilation that gave life to the hill. This hill had surely been given new life since I last stood upon it. And now, here I am, years later, standing again on this hill.
As I stood there, I started to think how I’ve regrettably taken the idea of standing for granted. For the last time I was on this hill, I was laid down. I was laid down in shame. The inability to stand ripped me of my humanity. Imagine having the knowledge that you could stand, but you were oppressed to the point where all you were capable of doing was lying down. The idea of being able to stand but not doing so deprived me of all my human nature claimed I was capable of. So naturally, I must have not been human.
And then, just when I thought my shame could not elevate anymore, I was placed below the ground. It is with great distaste that I say this, but I was placed within a coffin below the ground, left to die. I find it funny that my lowest point in life was that when I was lower than the ground I walk on. Yet there was nothing funny about the situation. At that one point in time, I was ripped of not only my humanity but also my state of being. The only way that I could have let that harm beat its swollen fists upon me was if I was dead, and did not exist at all.
My captors mocked me, scorned me, despised me, and beaten me. In their hatred they sought to snatch everything I had: my pride, my humanity, and my life. They made me dig my own grave that fateful night I was last on this hill. I grasped the shovel, the tool of my demise, with clenched fists curling in anger against them. But as I dug myself deeper in the dirt, I found that in my inability to be human, I could feel no anger against them. Instead, I placed myself below them, numb to the pain inflicted upon me.
The next thing I knew, I was in my wooden coffin, laid below layers of dirt. I had been buried “alive.” But was I really alive? For if four walls surround me, and I have no hope of anything outside these four walls, then surely I am dead. There below the dirt, there was no hope of breathing the fresh air again. There was no hope of feeling light beat upon my skin. There was no hope, period.
At first, I began to panic. With my limited breath, I screamed and yelled. But I found with my limited air supply that the more breath I used to yell, the more I was suffocating myself.
Then I began to beat against the lid of the coffin. But the sound was being soaked up in the layers of dirt. I was merely exhausting my energy in vain.
My mouth was painfully dry from all this useless work. The only sustenance I had was the sweat dripping off my forehead. Yet this sweat was dripping down to the base of the coffin. I tipped my head up for the sweat to flow to my mouth, but as I knocked my head against the lid, the sweat dripped back down to where it was useless.
At this point, I cried, not out of seeking another source of water, but out of utter hopelessness. As tears gushed down my face, I found the last thing that made me human escape me. The tears would soon dry up and I would be left a hopeless shell of a being.
It was then that I sought to grow familiar with my surroundings. The only family I had beneath the earth was the dirt that enveloped me. My brother was dirt, my sister was dirt, my mother was dirt, my father was dirt, and I was dirt.
Despair soon turned to a realization of the present situation. I had no hope of anything outside my coffin, so I was dead inside. Dead to any hope, which I was frantically trying to grasp while in my coffin, yet all of that was just a vain effort to feel human. I was not human. I was dirt.
But then, I heard a shuffle above. Could this be? Was someone walking above me? A shred of hope entered me, and with that I began to move. But it was a limited movement, for I was still confined within my coffin.
The shuffling above the dirt turned to what sounded to me like thunder banging upon the clouds. The dirt was now giving way to light, which crept through the crevices of my wooden coffin. I moved more, but my movement, my exerted effort, led to my destruction. My mind slipped away with my breath, and I was no more. Or so I thought.
The next sight I laid my eyes upon was a blurry figure shadowed by the blanket of night. He or she had filled my lungs full of air, so now I was able to breathe for myself. I held onto this air that wasn’t mine with hopes that it would rejuvenate my mind long enough to see the face of my rescuer. Yet I was unable to.
And that is all I remember of that incident. At first I tried to shut it out of my mind to be forever lost in an abyss where trauma establishes its residence. But then I sought to hold on to it. Why you might ask? Because it gave me a new revelation of this ground I walk on. I stand because Someone brought me out of where I was laid down. I breathe to live because Someone gave me breath to live. I am human because Someone revived my humanity when they saw me worthy enough to come out of the dirt.
The grave where I lied was no longer an evident monument. The mound of dirt was replaced with the life of grass teeming over it. As I stood witness to this sight, my bare feet dug into the dirt, almost as a means to establish myself back to that moment. The moment where I was no different than the dirt. But now I stand upon the glory that Someone saw me, or sees me, as different. And with that conviction, I walked away from that site. I walked away with my toes clasping the dirt and head held high towards the heavens.
