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When my social media feeds started to flood with announcements of unexpected deaths due to COVID-19, my mind began dredging up fatal memories of Black bodies. I pictured Sandra and Tamir, Trayvon and Samuel, Alton and Renisha, Jordan, and the other Jordan too. It's not sad that I can recall their names with such ease, as if letters of the alphabet, it's sad because of the reason why — all the sudden loss of life on my side of the tracks triggered a dreadfulness in me. These weren't new feelings, by any means, but fierce reminders of a truth I detest. To be black in this country is to know that there is always a present possibility that you are not safe.
I wondered what path, if any, do we come out unscathed and unbothered, come out stronger without having to recover from loss? Optimism is one side of the coin of struggle, and that righteous hope lives in me. It's a resilient, never-ending pursuit of the pleasant “what if” that steals my attention just long enough to dream. I imagined change, as if things were different, not knowing how or when, but the universe simply had had enough and shifted course in my favor. A place without hashtag memorials. A place where police officers hand out masks in predominantly Black neighborhoods. And then the levees of hope broke, as they always do, and my conscious was taken by a ravenous storm of fatal force on a Black body that chose to go for a jog.
What is there to say, that hasn’t already been said? What string of words will be new and soft enough to relieve me of this dark imagery and pounding headache? What response, but shock and rage, can I muster at the sight of another row of Black bodies collapsing like buildings from the wrecking ball that is whiteness? I have been here, time and time again, trying to find peace in the rubble; lost in the debris of broken dreams and shattered potential, clouded by the thick smog of ignorant violence. But I, unlike my white compatriots, cannot turn the other cheek, detach myself or swipe pass the headshots and headlines that seem unrelated. I must bear the unbearable, grappling with the foul use of Blackness for target practice, and I must do this all while struggling to loosen the suffocating grip of COVID19.
God, we don’t get a break, do we? I am simply seduced by brief intermissions that are placed between long acts of terror; instructed to return to my seat to watch the bloody plot thicken.
Here I am, processing pain, going to God in prayer with things I should be voicing to you, America. You are the self-appointed lord of the Earth, who sacrifices and bestows destruction and death upon your unfavorable children. In a matter of days, I’ll be 35-years-old (10 more years than Ahmaud saw), and in my three short decades I have never witnessed you answer any of my prayers. I have begged and cried, I have abstained, consecrated, fasted, presented myself damn near holy — and none of it is ever good enough.
If the religion of America has taught me anything, it is that obedience is not better than sacrifice. My acts for mercy and justice, my desire for love, never holds its ground. You block every blessing, even the grace I've earned under your watch. It's as if you're waiting for me to tire myself out. But fatigue is a luxury for those who can afford to consider it. I do not have the luxury to recover, to standby or sit with patience, to dismiss the responsibilities of actions I am not responsible for; I don’t get to choose a later battle. I don't get to take a day, Lord knows even a breath is a lot to ask for. This battle is mine, thus said the oppressed.
America, you still do not care about me after all I have done for you. And after all I have done for myself, to myself, it still has been all for you. Yet, most of it has been in vain because racism is the longest running and most deadly pandemic the world has ever seen. Maybe, we should've social distanced ourselves long ago, but even that idea relieves you of taking responsibility, pacifies you with the idea that I didn't do something, like run fast enough.
Oddly, I recently wrote about this troubling reality in a short film — I guess my subconscious was speaking my fears out loud, or maybe the ancestors were trying to prepare me. In the script, the main character is chastised by his older relative for jogging as a hobby. The two characters get into a squabble; it’s a classic argument of fear vs. freedom, the difference between Black folks surviving and living. The main character understands his uncle's concerns, but he has been groomed to simultaneously be aware of the lines while also pushing their boundaries. It is the rude awakening of my existence: Living in a changed world is not the same as being the change you want to see in the world. The former is the result of the latter, and America, you do not budge easily.
Where can I go in a society that questions everything about me? I am one of the most undermined citizens this world has ever known, second only to the Black woman. If you only took the time to examine the harsh soil you feed me, you would be amazed by my ability to grow at all, let alone prosper. Although, in a sick, demented way, America, you are aware, but you figure celebrating me today is proper atonement for crippling me for centuries. But what good is it to pat me on my back if you're only pushing the knife in further? It’s no wonder I can’t seem to get any closer to safety, to freedom.
As Baldwin said, "You need the n****r." You need me to run so that you can hide. But have you asked yourself, why? I ask myself why, every day. I have to live with the consequence of you hiding from your truth. I have to run from prejudice, apathy, ignorance, bias, stereotypes — run away from this psychological nightmare that takes the form of anything it wants in order to destroy me.
As much as I want to take a break, as desperately as I want to sit in the quiet of my thoughts and focus on self, especially at this time of quarantine, I can’t. I must stand, put myself out there, on the peaceful corners of the public psyche, and shout to the sky with every bit of morality in my body: NO MORE! STOP KILLING US!
America, you cannot continue putting your hands on me and expect me to say nothing, to do nothing. I refuse to go with the wind of silence and settle somewhere along your paths of compromise. I am standing here, toed up, ready for a fight, wrestling with this stubborn deity as did Jacob, and demanding my blessing. I don’t want your fame, your attention or validation; I want what you promised. I want what you owe me, and the innumerable before me. I want equality. I want my inalienable rights, amongst all your children. I want life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. But I cannot have any semblance of freedom if you continue to pursue me, hunt me down and kill me.
America, will you go against the grain, will you stir internal conflict to ensure and defend my safe passage? It is time for me to run with a clear mind and conscience. It is time for me to leave my house, choose a path, feel the sun and wind on my face, and make it back home.
Will you do the work for me that you refused to do for Ahmaud? Will you protect me and lift me up just as I have done for you, even when it was not in my interest? Will you? If you cannot, then I can't continue to follow your sad pace toward justice. I can't participate in your losing game. I cannot let you lead me to the same inappropriate grave you marked for my ancestors. I owe them more, and so do you.
What a shame, that you would let your children find themselves betrayed, robbed of the beauty life has to offer for generations, just so you can keep up appearances. America, you have become an armful of disillusions covering empty shells of existence. What happened to your spirit? Ahmaud Arbery shouldn’t be resting in peace, he should be running in peace — but you murdered him. You took his life because he chose an act of freedom, and after all we've done, that still doesn't sit well with you. This treachery is the offense you continue to repeat, America, and I won't let you live it down because you still won't let me catch my breath.
