Whenever a deplorable act occurs to someone in, or even a group of people from, the Black community*, like being
accidentally killed in the line of fire murdered by someone we are taught to trust (like the police, for "example"), we, of course, grieve.
*(like Michael Brown, Trayvon Martin, Eric Garner, Freddie Gray, Tamir Rice, Sandra Bland, Alton Sterling, Philando Castile, and countless others)
Or, one of us manages to find our way to success and then we are torn back down because of it, like actress/comedian/Olympics enthusiast Leslie Jones, we grieve.
We raise our voices in anger, deliver prayerful accolades, demand justice, etc. Rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat.
And for what seems like the millionth time, rinse and repeat.
And goodness knows I've read one too many articles with this same unfortunate formula, a formula
that should never have to be repeated in the first place. Yet, here we are.
But I want to take a little bit of time to focus on a certain aspect of this narrative that constantly pervades our lives.
Black tragedies, though obviously tragic, validate the Black/African-American experience in the United States. Despite what others will have you believe, these horrific happenings validate our feelings, feelings of not being truly valued as human beings in this country we (were forced to) call home. The repetitiveness of these happenings alone confirms that we have been and still are targets to those who do not recognize our humanity. Every time another blatantly racist situation arises, it only adds to our arsenal of truth.
(It should be noted that I am not in any way saying that I wish for more tragedies to occur to feed into these feelings of validation. In saying this, my point should be made clear that we are still in the midst of a systemic problem, but I'll continue...)
Sometimes it's difficult to understand this sentiment fully, especially with so many outside of the experience trying to tell us otherwise. And after awhile, some of us may fall into a purgatory-like complacency, a brief separation from reality, perhaps a coping mechanism for some. Some of us may begin to doubt ourselves, with the media feeding that doubt to us like a drug. Attempting and sometimes succeeding in making us addicted to that "safe" and "trouble-free" drug. "Sure, that was just an isolated incident." "That's probably not going to happen again." "He was just a nutcase with a gun." "We're in a better place now." Etc., etc., etc.
But, as stated before, we then find ourselves in the same predicament once again: yet another devastating act is exacted upon someone within our community, and the cycle only continues making its rounds.
It is in the midst of this cycle that I begin to realize that each disgusting occurrence represents a validation that we are not crazy. We don't need those calming, silencing drugs that are constantly shoved down our throats. We don't need a temporary and very false fix. What is happening to us is real. Racism. Is. Real. Alive. And. Well. And it needs to be fully addressed before true healing can begin.
Black. Lives. Matter.
This country, after hundreds and hundreds of years, is STILL full of hatred and ignorance. We have a long ways to go before that kind of thinking is even remotely diminished. But until then, we will be forced to continue through the cycle of tragedy, anger, doubt, and despair. But, at the very least, with each passing cycle, more and more people are beginning to open their eyes, and wake up.
Please, for the lives of black people/poc's everywhere: wake up. Wake up so that we might live to see another day. All I ask is for the right to breathe.
