What can I possibly say?
An hour ago I read about – and wrote about – one black man, mere hours away from me, who was killed by police officers. Moments ago I learn of another, in the state where I was born: a black man shot and left to bleed to death in front of his four year old stepdaughter? (RIP Philando Castile.) Both incidents captured by cell phone video footage. Both incidents tragedies that should have never happened. A dizzying sea of blood, emotions, loss, injustice, devastation…all unfolding on social media. The numbness is creeping in, warding off the psychological shutdown that is near. My mind struggles to make sense of what does not make sense as my black children sleep beside me, unaware of the lethality posed by their very skin. As they slumber, I pray that I too could escape into dreamland. But I cannot. This nightmare persists during my waking hours. There is no escape, and there is no way out.
I once likened this brown skin to an adornment. A vibrant covering full of history; full of the stories, hopes, experiences, and dreams of our brave, strong ancestors…I know it’s cheesy.
Maybe it IS a covering…
Like a shroud.
Like a smooth, polished wooden coffin.
Like the dirt shoveled atop one’s grave,
Like scattered dreams and faded memories,
Like eyes that are closed, never to reopen,
Like the layer of injustice that coats our existence.
The injustice is heavy in Falcon Heights tonight, as a little girl cries for a father who will never come home
Her sobs drowned out as the people who matter solemnly declare that “All Lives Matter” followed by”What about black-on-black crime?”
|Image of a portion of the face of a black female presenting person, tears collecting around one eye. Photo credit: edequity dot org|