Tag: #KyleHayes

  • “The Weight Beneath the Mask: On Patience, Rage, and the Quiet War for Empathy”

    “The Weight Beneath the Mask: On Patience, Rage, and the Quiet War for Empathy”

    Every morning, before the sun gets up and the world begins to call itself civilized again, I sit with myself. I try to be better than I was the day before. That’s the promise I’ve made, not to the world, but to the little boy I used to be—the one who deserved more tenderness than he received. The one who saw too much too early and still had the nerve to keep dreaming.

    I learn patience.

    I try to learn empathy.

    And most days, it feels like trying to catch rain in a sieve.

    Being a Foundational Black American in this country is to walk a tightrope stretched across a minefield. You must smile with your teeth clenched, laugh without humor, and nod when what you really want to do is roar.

    I try to treat everyone equally.

    That’s the goal, isn’t it? That’s the thing we’re taught to believe in. Equality. Fairness. The golden rule and the silver-tongued lies that follow it. But some days, it feels like I’m trying to hug a fist. Some days, the evidence of this country’s contempt for my existence is not anecdotal—it’s algorithmic. Baked into news cycles, comment sections, and the careful silence of the people who walk past injustice without blinking.

    You hear it. You feel it.

    There is discomfort in their voice when you speak with authority.

    The glance at your hands when you’re simply reaching for your ID.

    The way your masculinity is questioned when you don’t perform it on their terms, and criminalized when you do.

    Empathy feels dangerous some days.

    Softness feels like an invitation to be taken advantage of. And still, I reach for it. Not because I believe I’ll be met with it in return, but because I know what happens when you let anger do all the talking. You lose the part of yourself that still believes in healing.

    But let me say this plainly, because it needs to be said:

    Empathy is not weakness.

    It is resistance in its most refined form. It is the choice to keep your humanity intact when the world insists on stripping it from you.

    Still, I struggle.

    I struggle not to let the bitterness set in.

    I struggle to hold my tongue when my dignity is disregarded.

    I struggle not to internalize the weight of microaggressions—those paper cuts that don’t bleed but never quite heal either.

    And underneath it all is a rage most people don’t want to acknowledge.

    Not because it isn’t real. But if they acknowledged it, they’d have to admit they helped cause it.

    What would they think, these coworkers and strangers and casual acquaintances,

    if they knew what it takes for me to walk through the world as calmly as I do?

    What would they feel if they could feel the heat I have to suppress just to make them comfortable?

    What if they knew that beneath this patience is a warrior holding his sword with the blade facing inward?

    We are not angry without reason.

    We are angry because we are still here, and still treated like ghosts.

    We are angry because we know what our fathers swallowed.

    Because we watched our mothers turn crumbs into miracles.

    Because we are still expected to smile while being slowly erased.

    And yet…

    We rise early. We go to work. We raise children. We love.

    We choose empathy when anger would be easier.

    We wear the mask, not because we are afraid, but because we know the cost of taking it off.

    Some mornings I fail.

    I lose my temper. I withdraw. I despair.

    But most mornings, I try again.

    Because the work isn’t just surviving.

    The work is staying human in a world that profits off your dehumanization.

    And so, I practice patience.

    Not because the world deserves it.

    But because I do.

    By Kyle Hayes

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  • When the Earth Trembles and the Sky Weeps

    When the Earth Trembles and the Sky Weeps

    There are moments in a man’s life when his words feel like a betrayal.

    This is one of them.

    Because anything I write will not do justice to the raw wound stretching across Texas and New Mexico. No sentence—no matter how well-shaped—can describe the homes washed away, or the destruction left by Floodwaters. This is not simply weather. This is a humanitarian crisis, quiet in the way only American suffering can be—because it often happens without proper cameras or compassion.

    I’ve kept them all in my prayers.

    Both Texas and New Mexico were battered by floods.

    People fleeing rising water, families praying for missing loved ones, whole communities reduced to rubble or memory.

    I’ve also held someone closer in prayer—a dear friend in Houston, a healer by trade and by nature. I believe she and others—doctors, nurses, caregivers—are already mobilizing. They are the ones who step forward before anyone asks. The ones who show up while the nation debates. They pack their scrubs, their gauze, their quiet courage, and go. Not for politics. Not for applause. But for the people.

    I often think about how place shapes perception.

    In the Quad Cities—my home—we know natural disasters like we know the back of our hands. Tornado sirens were the lullabies of summer nights. Flooded streets were rituals, almost seasonal. You learned early to measure trauma in feet and inches of water. But even familiarity doesn’t dull devastation—it only makes it expected.

    But for many in New Mexico, in regions where floods aren’t expected to reach their porches, the pain strikes differently. It’s not just loss—it’s betrayal. It’s learning, in one cruel stroke, what it means to live at the mercy of something larger and more indifferent than government. It is learning, quickly and violently, that Mother Nature is not a metaphor.

    She does not negotiate. She does not plead. She comes as she is—rage wrapped in water.

    So, no—I will not speak of politics. Not today. I won’t debate climate policy, relief budgets, or federal negligence. Not now. Because the water is still rising. And people are still missing.

    This moment belongs not to partisanship but to compassion.

    To the man who lost his house in the flood.

    To the families who have lost loved ones in Ruidoso.

    To the nurse flying into Houston, not knowing if there will be enough beds or time.

    To the child who will never again see their bedroom, their bike, their favorite tree.

    And perhaps to you, reading this, holding grief for strangers you’ve never met.

    If this country is worth anything, it’s worth the way we show up for each other when the ground gives out and the sky collapses. Not with slogans. Not with red or blue hats. But with hands, and hearts, and quiet, necessary acts of grace.

    Because when disaster comes, it doesn’t check party affiliation. It doesn’t care about borderlines or building codes. It comes for the breathing, the working, the praying—the living.

    And when the winds still and the waters drain, all that will remain is the memory of who showed up. And who didn’t?

    May we all, in whatever way we can, show up.

    With our money.

    With our time.

    With our healing.

    With our humanity.

    Because that’s the only thing strong enough to rebuild what’s been broken.

    By Kyle Hayes

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