Why Am I Just. Getting This?

Why Am I Just Getting This?

Setting: A modest living room with a worn but cozy armchair. A 70-year-old Black woman, Eloise, sits in the chair, her knitting resting on her lap. A lamp casts a warm glow as she speaks to herself, her voice a mix of frustration, sadness, and clarity.

ELOISE:

Why am I just getting this?

Seventy years of living... and I’m just now piecing it together.

All this time—walking through life, following rules I didn’t even know existed.

And not just rules, no. Laws. Laws that claim to govern me, guide me.

But how can I follow something I’ve never seen? Never touched?

It’s like living in a trap...

A trap where the walls are invisible,

but you keep bumping into them, bruising yourself.

And every time you fall, someone stands there wagging their finger,

saying, “You should’ve known better.”

But how was I supposed to know?

Who told me? Who showed me?

I didn’t see no manual handed out at birth.

And yet, here I am, held accountable—like everyone else—

by rules whispered in rooms I wasn’t allowed to enter.

I look back now, and I see it plain as day.

The imbalance, the injustice... it’s baked into the system.

They hold the keys—

the ones who write the laws, interpret them, enforce them.

And me? I was just told to follow along.

“Be a good girl, Eloise. Stay in your lane.”

But how do you stay in your lane

when the road keeps shifting under your feet?

I’ve lived through so much—segregation, civil rights marches,

and all the quiet struggles in between.

And yet, here I sit, realizing that freedom...

Freedom ain’t just about tearing down walls you can see.

It’s about the walls you can’t see.

The ones they don’t want you to see.

I feel like I’ve been running my whole life,

running to catch up with knowledge that was kept just out of reach.

And now, at seventy, I’m asking myself...

What would my life have been if I had known?

If I had understood the rules—

really understood them—

instead of stumbling in the dark?

But you know what?

I’m done blaming myself.

This ain’t about me, not just me.

This trap wasn’t my making.

And maybe—just maybe—

it’s not too late to unlearn, to see the truth for what it is.

I’ve got wisdom now, even if it came late.

And maybe, if I speak it loud enough,

someone younger will hear me,

and they won’t have to wait seventy years to see the trap for what it is.

(She leans back, a wry smile tugging at her lips.)

They might’ve kept me in the dark for a while,

but I see now.

And when you see... you can’t unsee.

That’s where real power starts, isn’t it?

(She picks up her knitting, her hands steady as she works.)

Well, I’ve got some unraveling to do.

And I reckon it starts right here, with me.

(Lights fade as Eloise continues to knit, her face resolute.)