I’m depressed. I have no energy. I’m tired. And I’m not even
the one who needs to be worried--warning my kids of how police could target
them. My kids don’t have targets on their backs.
My sister, who grew up dancing on the hashed line between her white and black families, would have to have those conversations if she had children of her own. My heart breaks for this nation right now—I feel like the aftermath of this pandemic, where so many lives were lost—and disproportionately black ones more than white ones—it makes me just want to curl up under a weighted blanket and wish it all away---the pandemic to start and the hate, the injustice, the complete lack of confidence in leadership (leaderSHIT) and the whole mess of it all.
I can’t breathe. But the thing is, I CAN BREATHE. I do it deeply every day and when I take those extra deep breaths, I think of my sister and the people she as is equally part of as she is of me and mine—the way their breath is not smooth like mine right now—it’s jagged with anger and anxiety over the attack they feel, the anxiety they experience when they get pulled over for speeding or get a second look from authorities. The speeding up of their heart rate so much more often than mine for actions I would never think twice about.
My sister, who grew up dancing on the hashed line between her white and black families, would have to have those conversations if she had children of her own. My heart breaks for this nation right now—I feel like the aftermath of this pandemic, where so many lives were lost—and disproportionately black ones more than white ones—it makes me just want to curl up under a weighted blanket and wish it all away---the pandemic to start and the hate, the injustice, the complete lack of confidence in leadership (leaderSHIT) and the whole mess of it all.
I can’t breathe. But the thing is, I CAN BREATHE. I do it deeply every day and when I take those extra deep breaths, I think of my sister and the people she as is equally part of as she is of me and mine—the way their breath is not smooth like mine right now—it’s jagged with anger and anxiety over the attack they feel, the anxiety they experience when they get pulled over for speeding or get a second look from authorities. The speeding up of their heart rate so much more often than mine for actions I would never think twice about.
What the hell? It’s been four hundred fucking years after
the time they were considered three-fifths of a man and even less a human and here
we are 400 hundred years later and the people who are trusted to protect and
serve are suffocating and shooting. 8 minutes and 46 seconds. I can run a full mile
a full minute faster. A full fucking mile, which seems to take a long time for my legs to cover
and how many breaths in those steps? 100? 1,000? 100,000? And that’s how long that
mother fucker had the weight of his body on Mr. Floyd’s throat. Who was Derek
protecting? What did he fear? What was he expecting? Did he think he’d get up,
walk away, and be rewarded for catching a criminal passing a fake $20 bill?
How many of my sisters and brothers and cousins have to die
to change how we treat one another? How much systematic change over how many
years and possibly generations much occur to stop the horror? I know my words
have been repeated on so many lips for decades but here’s a sea change in our
midst. It’s a wave of rage, justice, loss, grief, complicated interlopers, destruction,
beauty, unity, hope and it comes dressed in rainbow colors—the colors that tell us a tsunami
of change is on the horizon—the colors that the very basic physics of this planet communicate soggy darkness, and now the sun and bright sky.
I feel a deeper chasm now than I ever have with my sister--and not because I can't express myself with her--it's because never before has my skin color shoved me into deep reflection and
realization of the privilege I knew I had but never had the reason to summon,
face directly, and unpack like I have recently. And it’s made me feel feelings
I have a hard time describing—a ball of guilt and grief, anger and sadness, disappointment
in our society, and most of all, shame and frustration. Shame I don’t...I simply just don’t know better. Or I just don't know worse is more accurate. Cause why would I? I don't live in her skin, I live in mine. I am an extreme empath but even that is not good enough for so many of us. I’m her blue sister…"So white I’m blue," she says
lovingly.And all I want to be right now is darker--her beautiful color--because it would make me closer to her and then I would really feel what I know exactly she’s feeling…and I could stand alongside her looking not different, not like her half-sister but her full sister, not of the race of oppression and horror but the one of unity and resilience and love and so much more…and then I extrapolate the confusing mixed bag of emotions and think about how millions of others out there are handling all of this...
I vow to do my part to pave the way for that change. After
all, I cannot live with this anymore. No more death at the hands of those we
are told we should trust. No more stealing breath and lives. We MUST work
together and work in ways that might make us feel uncomfortable so that no one
else has to suffer unjustly.
Comments
Post a Comment