A/R by Bailey Nicole Townsend

Dedicated to my father who grew up somewhere in between black and human.

I won’t tell him I wrote this.

I can not tell you which one of the words cuts deeper—

A or R.

But I can tell you about how I grew up in the good

suburbs; about I had never actually heard

anyone say it with the R until I was 13. I was 13

in the city, and it was yelled at my dad. “What?”

I said. It was a bullet, shot crooked, shattering

my world, grazing my throat, poison rushing

somewhere in my veins toward my heart.

“He called me a nigger,” my dad replied. I

could still cry of bewilderment that he said it

so calmly. I have spent years thinking about if

my dad had felt the shot as well.  I have spent

years considering whether he didn’t or if he has

become used to bullets impeding his skin his

entire life. Years thinking about my mother’s

offhand comments about how my dad was

bullied in high school for the color of his skin,

and the things his peers called him. Hours

questioning if he would ever tell me about what

it was like to live in his skin, and if I could even

really understand if he did. I have spent years

wondering whether or not we exist in the same

universe. I have always been too scared to ask.

I can tell you about the times I have heard it with

the A. The issue is that I have lost track. I don’t

remember the earliest time and I don’t remember

the latest. I remember football and basketball

games, I remember videos singing along to rap

songs on finstas, I remember the parking lot of

my school before first period, I remember screenshots

of snapchats. The insignificant times become

significant because they hurt the most. These

bullets are so much more real than the day in the

city with my dad. Because I am shot straight

through my mouth and bleeding out and the

blood is gluing my mouth shut, keeping me from

making a scene, keeping me from becoming

the annoying girl with the chip on her shoulder,

and there is no one there to save me. There

is no one there to be calm. I am shot and my

skin is crawling with the hot lead that leaks under

it, pounding on the surface, and I have spent years

wondering if ignoring it will kill me one day. And I

have spent more wondering whether or not my

dad and I exist in the same universe. But I have

spent the most time wondering whether or not

we even exist in the same universe as people

who are not like us.

Everytime someone who is not like us says it, the bullet feels a little bit closer to

my heart and the difference between them — A and R — feels just a little bit more

indistinguishable.

The difference is a joking gesture to my best friend and a sneer at my family—

The difference is one spit in my face and the one whispered in my ears between giggles—

The difference is a line that is way too thin—

The difference is a line that crawls under my skin and weighs on my chest—

The difference is in that they are both lethal—

But I am not sure which one hurts more.

Bailey Nicole Townsend (she/her) is an award-winning poet from Sacramento, California. Her work often focuses on identity, struggle, and growth.