Ink & Shadows: The Words of Osiris j Reapor

There is a fear living in me that I can’t shake. It is not sudden. It did not crash into my life in one dramatic moment. It grew quietly, like a storm creeping over the horizon, and by the time I realized how dark the sky had become, it was already too late to pretend the sun was shining.

It came from watching my country warp into something unrecognizable. Rights discarded. Due process tossed aside. Leaders shrugging as the very people sworn to uphold the law ignore it. Seeing armed agents move through our streets, masked and nameless, snatching human beings as if they were nothing. Civilians. Workers. Parents. Young people who did nothing more than exist while brown or Black or simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Then came the images that haunted me. Agents grabbing people of color and binding them. Children. As if this nation learned nothing from the ugliest parts of its past. As if cruelty has become a point of pride.

It was in that moment I understood something I never wanted to understand: this place I call home may no longer be safe for people like me.

As a man of color, the air feels different now. Something colder. Something meaner. Something that tells you not to get too comfortable, because your rights can be taken from you with the stroke of a pen or the silence of a leader. And then I saw people arguing that symbols like the swastika and the noose were no longer “hate,” but simply “potentially divisive.” That felt like a punch to the chest. It told me exactly how fragile our humanity is in the eyes of those who hold power.

When I say I fear for my home, I do not mean the structure. I mean the people inside it. The laughter that fills the rooms. The warmth that comes from knowing the ones you love are close and safe. I fear the moment when the line between war abroad and war at home dissolves completely. I have fought in wars. I know the sound of chaos, the burn of adrenaline, the weight of doing what survival demands. I have no desire to ever live those memories again. But the idea that conflict could reach my doorstep is a fear that sits heavy on my chest.

I fear what will happen to the people I love if this nation continues tearing itself apart. I fear what millions of families will endure if violence erupts. And I fear the version of myself that could be forced forward if the world I’m trying to protect collapses around me. Not because that version is unfamiliar, but because I know exactly what he is capable of. War turns people into things they never asked to be.

What keeps me awake most nights are my children. Their future feels like a fragile piece of glass I am trying to shield from a world that throws stones without care. My sons deserve a life where their brown skin is not a target or a warning sign. They deserve joy, opportunity, and freedom. They deserve to live long enough to become the men I know they will be. But hatred does not care about potential. Ignorance does not care about innocence. And those in power often do not care about the bodies left behind.

My fear follows me into the morning. Into the night. Into the moments when the house gets quiet and my mind has nowhere to hide. I lose sleep. My anxiety fires without warning. I watch the news with dread, waiting for the next blow. And yet I still tell my children the truth. I tell them I will protect them. I tell them I am scared. And I tell them that if real danger ever comes to our door, I will move the earth itself to get them somewhere safe.

In the midst of all of this, there is still hope. Not a bright, shining, Hollywood kind of hope, but the gritty kind you hold onto with white knuckles. It comes from the people around me, the friends who remind me that I am not standing alone. People who see beyond color. People who see beyond fear. People who would show up for one another when it matters. That is the only kind of hope worth anything these days.

Sometimes I let myself remember what life looked like before this fear settled in. Before the constant tension. Before the headlines felt like warnings. I miss believing that my country would always rise to the occasion and push back against its worst impulses. I miss trusting that the Constitution meant something. I miss thinking that progress was permanent. I was wrong. Painfully, brutally wrong.

When I dream of a safer future, I rarely picture this country anymore. I imagine distance. An island maybe, or a quiet place untouched by the bitterness that’s poisoning everything here. A world where my children can sleep without the shadow of someone else’s hatred reaching them.

And to those who feel this same fear but haven’t found a way to say it: I see you. If you are holding your breath waiting for the next blow, I am with you. If you feel like the world is collapsing inward, you are not alone. If you are ready to stand for what is right, I will stand beside you. If you are scared, I am scared too. But fear does not mean we are weak. Fear means we still care. Fear means we still hope. Fear means we refuse to go numb in the face of cruelty.

We are not as powerless as they want us to believe. We have each other. And together is the only way forward.

I am here, beloved. To those who walk behind me, I shall be your guard in shadow and in light. To those who stand at my side, I shall meet every peril with you, hand firm upon the hilt. For the ones who stand against me, no law will shield you, no army will hide you, and no god will lift you from the storm I bring.