I don’t remember exactly when I realized my skin color could dictate how far I would make it in life.

Maybe it was on Thanksgiving when I was 7. My mother’s father-in-law screamed, “I’m surprised no one has shot you yet. I would if I had a gun.” Or maybe it was when I posted a picture of $1,700 in cash on Instagram. I had worked almost 40 hours a week on top of being a high school sophomore to save for my first car. I was proud of that money. I was proud of myself. But it didn’t take long for a middle-aged white woman to comment, “You do realize you look like a f-ing goof for posting s**t like this right?!? Lol!! Ppl that come from money, or make their money legit- … Would NEVER post dollar bills!!! This post SCREAMS broke ass… Probably a drug dealer.”

Now, I know what you’re thinking: How dare she? She’s an adult.

She didn’t know me. I’m a “good” kid. Chances are, if you know me personally, or even if you don’t, I probably don’t strike you as a drug dealer. To her, though, money plus brown skin automatically equals drug dealer. They equal thug.

But that’s not me. I’m a junior who works 25 hours a week, earns As on my report card, bought my first car, pays my own phone bill and already know what I want to do after I graduate.

Every day I have to prove myself.

God forbid I cause a distraction and live up to the racist stereotypes awaiting me as soon as I walked through the door. I have to show I’m not what people expect. I’m scared that if I act out they will lose respect — not just for me, but for all of us. I walk on these eggshells until my feet bleed.

The double standard that comes with being a person of color is why I’m drawn to the Black Lives Matter movement.

People of color are held to tougher standards. Second chances are a fairy tale to most of us. So when a 16-year-old black boy makes a mistake and gets caught up with the law, he’s prosecuted as an adult and subjected to maximum sentencing. A 16-year-old white boy making the same mistake is more likely to be seen as a confused young man. The white kid gets to make mistakes; he doesn’t deserve to have the rest of his life altered because he’s, you know, white.

Maybe you think I’m dramatic. “It’s 2016,” you say. “Racism is dead and gone.”

Maybe for you.

I can’t begin to count how many times I think, “Is it because I’m black?” It happens at work when a customer ignores my offers to help and turns to my white coworker. It happens at school when a substitute teacher speaks to me with a different tone. It happens when shopkeepers hover when I enter their stores. It’s crazy that I even have to ask that question.

Yet, it’s my reality. I’m scared to walk with a hoodie covering my face.

Why? I have nothing to hide. I’m only black. That’s not a crime.

Oppressors don’t care that I’m on the honor roll every year. They don’t care that my teachers love me. They don’t care that I could probably outspell their children. They don’t take the time to learn my name. To them, my name is black, and black is bad.

Some white people are threatened by the Black Lives Matter movement. Why? How many white people have we lynched? How many white people have we poured hot tar and feathers on?

Sometimes I feel the need to define the word equality for people — white people specifically. When I’m in the street screaming that my life matters and my arms are aching from holding up a sign, why does that threaten you? When I say my black life matters, I’m not saying yours doesn’t. It’s simply that our lives haven’t always mattered and still aren’t valued by many people to this day. Can’t you see that saying “All Lives Matter” is a way to muffle the Black Lives Matter movement? White lives have always mattered.

I get it. Everyone struggles. No one wants to hear that their struggle was any less of a struggle compared to the person next to them, but sometimes that’s the case. No one is dismissing those struggles. They are very real. What you need to understand, though, is you’re still white. While you may not have had the easiest life, doors are opened for you that people of color have to kick down.

Black Lives Matter is important because it’s long overdue that we focus on our lives. Let’s say a house is on fire. The firefighters are called and they start spraying down every house in the neighborhood with water except for the one on fire. Someone asks, “Why are you spraying all of the houses when only this one is on fire?” and the firefighter responds, “All houses matter!” If every house would have been on fire, they would deserve the same treatment and amount of attention as the other houses. It’s important to pay attention to the one that is burning down.

One would assume that because I support Black Lives Matter, I don’t also support Blue Lives Matter.

This is the hashtag that surfaced after police officers were killed in Dallas. These movements are more alike than some may think. Both focus on specific groups of people being targeted.

Someone once told me there are two types of bad people. People who do bad things and people who watch bad things happen and do nothing about it.

There’s this misconception that racism and blatant murder by police officers is in some far away land when, in reality, it’s right here. Maybe not here, in your state, or your city, but it’s here. You think that could never happen close to home. But the seeds of racism that can lead to tragedies are in every community.

You have to ask yourself: What do I value? Am I contributing to a cause that will affect future generations in a positive way? Or am I OK with devaluing others because of our differences? Who am I?

I am Avery, Trayvon, Sandra, Freddie, Alton, Philando, Mike, London, and my life matters. #BlackLivesMatter.