It's not uncommon to hear stereotypical representations of people of color when you turn on the evening news, watch the latest TV show or flip through the pages of a magazine. But artist Bayeté Ross Smith and the New York Times are launching a project to counteract the monolithic and often stereotypical narrative around people of color in America.
"We’re inviting you to help build a more nuanced national portrait," Smith says, "What do you want to show or tell the world about your America that politicians and much of the public do not fully grasp?"
As presidential nominee Donald Trump spews rhetoric that all people of color are unintelligent and poor, Smith invited other members of black communities to share their reality in opposition to this hate speech.
Readers are invited to share their stories on Twitter and Instagram using the hashtag #HereIsMyAmerica. People of color are multifaceted groups that cannot be defined by a single narrative, and this campaign seeks to dispel any preconceived notions.
Like any hashtag, there's always the potential for trolls to take over the feed. We hope this one stays true to the purpose. It will be interesting to see which stories are selected for the eventual gallery.
Will you participate in this campaign? Follow the hashtag on Twitter and Instagram for updates.
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The other day, someone told me that they didn't care about the Black Lives Matter movement. So when I asked if they care about the killings of black people every single day, they literally told me, “no.” This, of course, infuriated me, which I expressed, but I went on to show them exactly why they need to care.
I said that it makes them incredibly ignorant, and someone who I don't want in my presence if they don't care. (To tell me this is to literally spit on the graves of all of my ancestors and every other black person’s ancestors, and on the thousands of lives lost due to police brutality, as well as the loved ones they left behind). Now, I'm not saying that police are the only ones killing black people, but there has been an unacceptable amount of police who abuse their power. This is a fact that can't continue to be ignored, but something that gets swept under the rug in many cases.
For more than two hours, me and this person sat side by side, and I brought up article after article showing them just how distorted their views were.
If this were two years ago, I would have been much less understanding, and my response might have been less than kind. Although I believe that my response would have been extremely justified in this context, I wanted and needed to take this as an opportunity to educate this clearly ignorant and lost person. To have them tell me that they had no idea that all of this was happening in our country, told me they lived under multiple rocks. This begs the question: How many more people simply “do not know?” How many more people are lost and in need of being shown the facts? How many people are turning a blind eye to the harsh realities that so many black people face in this country?
This person proceeded to tell me that I needed statistics to back up my claims, so I gave them a list of names of black people killed in America in 2016 alone, not to mention in previous years. To say that they were shocked would be an understatement, but I was asked to provide statistics, so that's exactly what I did. The truth is rarely pretty, but in this case, the truth is downright heartbreaking and dehumanizing, but it is a truth that I felt inclined to shed some light on.
Throughout our conversation, I was continually thanked. I was told that I was teaching them something, and that now they feel more aware of what's happening and what has been happening to black people for centuries.
I have to remind myself that what is common sense to me, might be difficult for another person to comprehend.
We exchanged stories of experiences with race throughout our rather short lives, seeing as we are both in our early 20s. This person told me that they once stole something from a store as a child, and that when they gave it back, the people who worked there were thankful, but they did not get in trouble. I said that as a black person, it would not have mattered what age you were, but that stealing something could have gotten you into more trouble than someone who was not black. Regardless. Of. Age. This comment left them speechless, but like I said before, the truth is rarely pretty.
This is obviously an important conversation that needed to be had.
This individual told me that they loved learning and being corrected when wrong, which was good for me, because I was literally spewing out information for hours. I could have kept going, but researching the thousands of stories of black people being killed for their blackness is inherently exhausting. It feels like this is a never ending cycle. I am tired. I am so tired. More than that, I am afraid of being black in this world where we are oppressed on a daily basis for no reason other than our blackness.
When you're black, to many people, no matter what you do and achieve, you will never be anything more than the color of your skin. This narrow-minded, bigoted viewpoint deeply saddens me, because the black people I know are doctors, artists, lawyers, business people and so much more. The black people I know are some of the most brilliant people I have ever known, but I know that the world as a whole doesn't see this.
I think being black in America is by far the bravest thing any of us has ever done and probably will ever do.
To be unapologetically black in a country that is not and has never been here for us and has a history of oppressing and killing us makes us warriors. All we can try to do is to educate those around us who aren't paying attention to what's happening all around us. When these moments arise, we have the power and the gift to inform and teach others. We have the power to make more people “woke” to all of the violence happening at the hands of people who are supposed to protect us. At the end of the day, if I can have more of these conversations, I feel like I'm doing right by someone. Because we matter. We matter so much.
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I have a confession to make. I am in a highly dysfunctional relationship and I don't know how to get free. I've been in it for so long, I've lost myself. It's all that I know. I measure my worth against its validation and crave its approval so desperately that I have contorted, changed and manipulated myself to appease its tastes. I have surrendered myself to it fully. And still, it's not enough.
I just want to be seen, loved and treated with respect.
I have adopted his customs as my own and built his empire. I have danced and jumped and sang for his entertainment. I have worn his guilt and carried his burden. I have taken on his last name — African-American. I have been so immersed, so indoctrinated in who he is that I wouldn't recognize my tribe if they stood before me. Betrothed unto him, I have remained committed. This marriage was consummated long before he and I came to understand the institutionalized burden or benefit of our existence.
In return for my loyalty, I have asked only for his acknowledgement. That he would reward my efforts, recognize my contributions and accept the validity of my life. That he would see me, not as something to be tolerated, put up with or altered, but as the object of his adoration, to be embraced and celebrated. I have begged and marched and picketed for his allegiance. My ancestors have died in want of it.
He tells me that he wants to change, but progress takes time. He asks me to pray for him, to separate my faith from action. He intoxicates me with hope and assures me that if I keep loving him, despite all the festering wounds and sorrows he has inflicted, one day the sentiment will be returned. That remains to be seen.
The only thing I know for certain is that I am in a highly dysfunctional relationship and I don't know how to get free.
The transition into adulthood isn’t an easy one. Navigating relationships, managing workplace politics, hitting those milestones on schedule— don’t be fooled, no one knows what they’re doing. There will be all kinds of fumbles, blunders and awkward missteps along the way. If you’re constantly wondering to yourself, “Am I doing this right?” Welcome. This is just the place for you.
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By middle school, pledging allegiance to the flag was out. I'd learned a enough about Harriet Tubman, Sojourner Truth, and Marcus Garvey to say peace out to the daily recitation of the pledge of allegiance. When my teachers called my mother to complain about my refusal to blithely put my hand across my chest and join in with the rest of the class, she simply told them, "It's her choice." "You're DARN right, mom" is what I thought every time, and I'd go to class the next day with a smirk on my face. Who was I to refuse my loyalty to this country? I was a child who was taught to learn about my ancestors, critically think about my history and how it related to my present, and to question anything I was taught in school — especially if it seemed suspect to me.
Being that the library has always been one my favorite places in the world, I read a lot. I learned a lot. I then acted accordingly. Even Michael Jackson, the King of Pop, knew they never loved us (and made a song about it). After that, I pledged my allegiance to Africa.
Hold up, though. Africa is a whole continent. I knew I was African, but didn't know what part I was from. This was a vague allegiance, and it didn't hold water with the Africans I met who were either actual transplants from Africa or knew their lineage clearly. They met me with hostility or pity or both. It was maddening. Some felt better than me just because they were born in Africa and I wasn't. Others touted having never been captured and dragged from their land as their source of superiority (I didn't know enough back then to bring up the colonization of Africa by other European nations). I was just like, "Why are we debating who has been enslaved more or less than whom? There were even those who held being bilingual and having a familial history of ownership above my head.
I was glad when I learned the term 'diaspora.' I would ask them, "Aren't we all a part of the African Diaspora, though?" Most of the time, they would sigh a sigh of disdain and walk away. I was still hell bent on pledging my allegiance to Africa — all of it, for now — hoping to eventually find out where exactly I came from.
Then, this article came out about black Americans appropriating African culture. It was cognitive dissonance like a mug, in my opinion. How could I appropriate my own heritage? When I say "my own heritage," I'm not referring to one tribe or one country, I am referring to the entire diaspora. Instead of using the obvious interest in African clothing, jewelry, markings, religion and culture as a moment to educate, this article felt hostile. It felt like I was an African being kicked out of Africa by Africans. That's lame.
I'm all about respecting sacred cultural traditions, clothing, language and markings, but I'm also about educating a segment of the greater tribe of Africa who lost everything on a boat ride across the sea and four centuries of torture, oppression and programming. I haven't known my full lineage, but I've always wanted to. Are you telling me not to pledge allegiance to myself? How could something so beautiful to me spark something so ugly toward me?
Finally, my sister took an African ancestry DNA test, and we traced our lineage back to a country and a tribe on our maternal side. I felt relief when I learned this information, yet was still filled with curiosity to find out about my paternal side as well. I was also still filled with conflict. African nature is, at its core, communal. I could pledge allegiance to only myself or only my family, but this would feel at conflict with who I am in relation to my origin.
So who am I supposed to pledge allegiance to when everyone is telling me to bow down or get out? For now, I pledge allegiance to knowledge —to learning as much as I can about who I am (and who we are and were) and sharing that information with anyone who will listen. This is my way forward. This is my way home.
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Many presume that motherhood should naturally follow marriage (sometimes even precede it). Whatever society's thoughts are about when it happens, the prevailing public opinion is that a woman (with an ambitious career or as a happy housewife) should at some point give birth. You've probably been on the receiving end of the questions or you've heard your girlfriend or wife be endlessly interrogated: "When are you going to finally settle down? Now that you're married, when can we expect some little ones? What are you waiting on?" And then there's the unwanted advice: "If you drink more water, that'll help you get pregnant faster. You know, when me and Ray-Nathan were trying, he used to hold me upside down against the wall in a handstand. Put some blessed oil on your headboard!"
The expectations around motherhood can become intrusive and personal quickly.
Sure, we're empathetic when women have reproductive challenges on the pathway to motherhood. Science even boasts that there are some medical advancements that will eventually make motherhood possible for women at any age. But there's a certain judgement when a woman makes a conscious decision not to experience motherhood, even if she makes this choice with her partner. She becomes a traitor of humanity for trading her perceived womanly "duty" for something considered to be selfish. A woman choosing not to become a mother is often thought to be unacceptable, and the burden is wholly on her.
I read an article recently called "Mind Your Own Womb," and the entire premise was that you never know a mother's (or would-be-mother's) background and encouraged the reader not to pass judgement. I thought that the scenarios the article offered were spot on, but took note that it completely left out women who choose not to become mothers. Are women invisible if they choose to forego motherhood? Does it lessen their validity as human beings? Obviously not, but women are constantly being judged around their choices regarding their own bodies.
Being a black mother in America is daunting. If we look at statistics and behavior, a black mother is more likely to have to deal with her child having a negative (and sometimes fatal) interaction with police, the criminal justice system or some rogue vigilante. I remember waking up the morning after the Michael Brown verdict thinking, "Black mothers in America give birth to possible mourning with the creation of each child." And it's not just criminality that black children will face, it's respectability politics in school, preparing them for the idea that their very existence is criminal. This might not be the only reason a woman chooses to forego motherhood, but I'm sure it's certainly a consideration when planning for the future.
Affording children is becoming an almost insurmountable task. As the cost of living rises disproportionately to the median wage, it's difficult to take care of one's self, much less be financially responsible for a little person. Parents are finding it challenging to give their children the best or to even keep them properly engaged and safe during the summer months. I've often thought about how experiencing poverty in my childhood has allowed me to be more grateful for the things I have, to stretch a small amount of money over a long period of time when necessary and to shop frugally, if need be. I've also thought about the ways in which it negatively affected me, such as being reckless when receiving (what I perceived was) a large lump sum of money to compensate for previous scarcity or buying things I don't necessarily need because I want to feel as though I have something. I'm sure that if my mother had the choice, I wouldn't have experienced poverty at all.
Finally, there's the elephant in the room. There's no dark, looming reason. She just doesn't want kids, and doesn't foresee motherhood as a part of her life.
The question of whether a woman becomes a mother or not is totally up to her and her partner. Is motherhood one of the most challenging jobs in the world? Yes. Does it deserve recognition when done well? Yes. Do women who choose not to become mothers create things, achieve things, and overcome things that are also challenging and also deserve recognition. YES. The bottom line is that America might not be (and might have never been) a prime environment to bring a child into. If a woman decides that it's not for her, we should respect that and move on.
Have you felt pressured to have children? Sound off in the comments!
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I can’t help it. When I see people on television, online, or literally on the streets, I sometimes think about how much better or worse their lives would be if they had experienced different K-12 educational experiences. In addition, I often imagine what America would look like if everybody in the country truly wanted the nation to maximize its potential.
I feel that educational disparities are so widespread that many former students are only living a fraction of the lives that they were destined for. I'm sure that there are potentially great writers who are instead illiterate because society wrote them off, possible business-owners who are instead unemployed because their school leaders didn't do their jobs, and even would-be architects who are instead homeless because they never received the proper foundation from their parents.
When I think about the fortunate few who come from privileged families, I also wonder what would have happened to these individuals if they had not gone to the best K-12 schools that money could buy. Although I realize that some of these people would have still achieved great success even if they didn't grow up with countless advantages, I'm convinced that many of them would not have been so exceptional as to overcome their lack of opportunities. As a result of this change in life circumstances, some current politicians who demonize destitute human beings would know what it’s like to be possessed by lifelong poverty, more than a few current tech entrepreneurs would be waiting in line for food stamps instead of feeding themselves based on what they do online, and several current doctors would be serving life in prison instead of preserving life in hospitals.
From a broader perspective, I also wonder what the current state of the Union would be if we really attempted to give each child an opportunity to fulfill their dreams. Many might think that America is a 'first world' country right now, but if the nation had genuinely tried to expand educational opportunities after the U.S. Supreme Court declared public school segregation unconstitutional in Brown v. Board of Education in 1954, then the current U.S. would probably be a fourth world country compared to an alternative America that would have benefitted from 62 years of relentless efforts to capitalize on the talents of each child.
Americans might be taking study-in-space trips to Mars by now. Teleportation might have become commonplace. And police brutality might just be something for the history books. Just think about how advanced the nation would be if it actually had a 365-days per year, 24 hours per day focus on effectively educating all children, including those in the Latino and black communities whose ancestors built a calendar system and a clock from genius, respectively.
In our current time period, however, the country continues to counterproductively place a low priority on the education of low-income and/or minority people, and this indifference to human potential seems to be reflected in the U.S.’s mediocre educational performance compared to other developed nations. It’s almost as if the nation is repeating a class where it keeps picking on the same people to answer questions even though others have had their hands up for years only to be shot down by looks of contempt. In a different place, practicality and a desire to see children lead full lives might move people to take action. But, then again, this country does not really care about school tragedies anyway.
What do you think about the state of education in America? Let us know in the comments below.
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On Monday, April 25, 2016, the U.S Appeals court reinstated the NFL’s four-game suspension of Tom Brady for next year's football season, 2016-2017, seriously jeopardizing The New England Patriots’ chances at winning another championship. Being a New England Patriots fan, but most importantly, a black New England Patriots fan from Boston, hearing this news not too long ago would have sent me to the fan pages joining the uproar over this “injustice.” However, this past year has forced me to re-examine what injustice truly looks like, and it ain’t what happened to Tom Brady. Not only do I not care, but I take pleasure in seeing my white once-hero become a victim. Yes, I know this is considered sacrilege in Boston, however, my blackness will not allow me to continue to idolize “The Golden Boy” any longer. Here’s why:
I originally fell in love with Tom Brady in 2001, when I was one of a few black students on a predominantly white college campus. Tom Brady was then an unknown rose from the bench after he replaced an injured Drew Bledsoe as Quarterback. That season, he would go on to lead the New England Patriots to their first Super Bowl victory. On the day of the scheduled celebration for the first Super Bowl title for the franchise I — and what seemed like the entire white campus — descended into the city to witness the messiah and his disciples' triumphant return. One million people showed up, clambering for every available inch, just for a glimpse or, if blessed, to be able to touch the stage Tom Brady and his Patriots floated on. In the middle of the swarming frenzy, I, the ignored black kid with the failing grades, stood in the middle of this celebration and felt like a winner, for once. In the years that followed, Tom Brady continued to win his way to being mentioned as one the greatest quarterbacks to ever play the game, while my grades continued to plummet until I finally dropped out and fell back into the ghettos of Massachusetts.
Fast forward to this past 2015-2016 NFL season. During the first regular season game of the year, I stood in the middle of the largely white crowd jubilantly willing my mostly white Patriots to another victory. Afterward, I waited around to watch the end game interviews in the locker room. Behind the news anchor neatly nestled next to Tom Brady’s number 12 jersey, I saw a scarlet hat with bold white letters that read,“Make America Great Again.” I’d grown accustomed to seeing that hat modeled by some yarn-chewing, tobacco-spitting farmer from some forgotten American city Donald Trump needed to win in order to continue his assault on democracy, but to see Tom Brady — the only white man I have ever rooted for — boldly display his political affiliation was something entirely different. The slogan, “Make America Great Again” is not a new idea. America has repeatedly used this ideology to justify the many heinous acts committed to black people in this country. Slavery, Cross burnings, “the war on drugs,” were all done in the name of “Making America Great Again.” Lynched black bodies hung from lamp post because they attempted to vote. Martin Luther King, Jr. was murdered by people who thought America was losing its greatness. Cointelpro was designed by men who believed in “Making America Great.” Based on these examples, when was America ever great? Was America great when my grandfather living in the Jim Crow south was denied a loan to help feed his 14 children, simply because he was sinfully black. Or maybe America was great when the red-faced officer snatched Justin, my 8th grade classmate, from amongst my troublemaking group and brought him underneath the train tracks, where he pressed a gun to his young black face and threatened to kill “his n*gger ass”? Was America great then? Tom Brady appears to think so.
Not too long ago, hearing the news about Tom Brady’s four-game suspension would have upset me. But that was when I actually believed Tom Brady was rooting for me to win. I realize now that his ideas of injustice are not the same as mine. His ideas about America’s greatness do not include me. They never have and probably never will. I guess that’s why they call him a Patriot.
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It took me maybe 30 minutes to give up on the “good/bad” binary that immediately developed online in response to the news that Harriet Tubman’s portrait would be on the front of the $20 bill. I went through a brief series of weirdly conflicting emotions before settling on: "I wish I could just be happy about this"—and then thinking on that for a while, too. I revisited Feminista Jones’ decisive opinion essay in the Washington Post from last year, “Keep Harriet Tumban—and all women—off the $20 bill,” and tweeted my favorite quotes from the piece. I also favorited tweets that reveled in the sheer badassery of Harriet Tubman’s work and legacy and celebrated the fact that “the first black person on money [will be] a dark skinned female war vet who worked hard to tank the slave economy,” as BlackAmazon tweeted that day. I enjoyed the memes and gifs and watched plenty of black girls and black women across the internet celebrate. I also allowed my body to settle into the discomfort and frustration I was feeling, rather than be angry at myself for reacting that way.
I don’t want to use this space to get into my own personal politics or ever-evolving praxis. Given the amount of material and available perspective already online, I don’t think it would benefit anyone. And anyway, the act of writing the “thinkpiece” and the act of watching the general public dismiss the “thinkpiece” before they even exist are both exhausting things. But after letting myself consider the tension that emerged instead of rushing to eradicate it, I fell into a slightly different strain of thought.
On Black Success:
It irritates me beyond reason that accomplishment and recognition for black folks is, so often, full of tension. Our successes in the academy are crowded by tokenism, exceptionalism and a perpetual sense of un-belonging. Our successes in the arts are rife with exoticism, the ever-malignant white gaze, and again, a perpetual sense of un-belonging. It’s similar for successes in other areas as well; those are just the two spheres I’m in relative proximity to. But regardless of the field, after the accomplishment and the recognition that is so often past-due, one begins to question the institution itself that did the recognizing—what archaic values does this particular gatekeeper use to define excellence? What does it mean to have my success measured by it? If a historically racist craft seriously in need of decolonizing deems your black work valuable—how does one begin to celebrate that? If a foundationally racist institution positions your black body somewhere near the top of a hierarchy—are the festivities not a complicated kind of joy?
I don’t mean to comment on whether or not black people should be allowed to celebrate their moments of recognition. I’m just saying that lately, almost all of my celebrations have been sung and danced beneath a shadow. Any recognition I’ve received in recent years has been, at least initially, colored by a happiness that felt unnaturally contained. Profoundly muted. And that angers me, especially now. Imaging Harriet Tubman’s face on tender that was previously used to mark her as subhuman, as merely operational in purpose, and then trying to see it all as a kind of retroactive honor—the joy I want very desperately to feel is somehow distorted.
Because that’s the kind of recognition this country offers us. The tensions we live with and navigate become normalized. The duality becomes unremarkable, except when we voice our discomfort. Many of our accomplishments appear materialistic. Our successes and even the celebrations of them are deemed contentious. Hell, marinating in our own joy is seen as divisive. This is the world in which “recognition” exists for black people. Put simply, it’s complicated.
And A Complicated World:
And by now, we’ve all heard the updated news—not just that Harriet Tubman will be on the $20-dollar bill, but that Andrew Jackson will share it with her as well, with his profile on the back of the currency. And here the tension is illuminated again. Our country’s constant dissonance in regards to its own history is made so plain it almost appears to be a bad joke. But then, isn’t that a condition we’re so familiar with? Haven’t we so often, in some way, even at our brightest and most brilliant, been made into a tasteless punchline?
Maybe it comes down to creating settings in which black people and other people of color can recognize and love on their peers in some temporarily fixed context. One that resists the white gaze, the capitalist gaze (can I call it that?), the patriarchal gaze (am I just making up terms here?), the imperialist gaze (yall know what I mean though, right?) as much as possible. Or maybe that’s not what we need. Or maybe we need it in limited amounts. I don’t know. Either way, shifting power is a painfully slow process, except in rare and explicitly deliberate circumstances. Ahem. Explicitly deliberate circumstances.
But creating alternative spaces does offer a conditional solace, at least.
That said—given the context, the history, the legacy of violence—is there even any way a country like ours could rightly honor a black woman as courageous and legendary and subversive as Harriet Tubman? Is it possible for a state that built so much of its wealth on black bodies and black blood—specifically the commodification and debasing of both—to honor her? What kind of recognition can a country that still benefits off those things offer a black woman who was born during, raised in and who fought against that terror?
And yet, there’s a desperate need for recognition and the celebration of our successes and our brilliance in spite of this—not a joy that ignores a violent framework, but maybe a joy that knows and understands the context, and so deliberately positions our joy in opposition to, in resistance of, and as a direct assault on that very violent framework that seeks to distort us. Though I’ve certainly witnessed that joy in limited capacities with dear friends and brilliant peers, I have no idea what that looks like on a massive scale. I mean, maybe Black History Month 2016 is the closest we’ve come to it. Cuz February was lit basically all the way through. But either way, it’s on us to keep imagining new ways to recognize and celebrate, new ways to honor each other’s present brilliance and our richly triumphant history.
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To be politically correct, the O.J. Simpson case was an unforgettable ball of racial thunder.
When I first saw the previews for this 10-episode series, I was intrigued by the highlights and truly ignorant of what actually happened in this case. So, I turned to family members to gain insight on their thoughts during the trial. There's always three sides to a story, but they actually only gave me two to side with. Race or redemption?
The first theory is one commonly known as "trying to keep another black brother down." O.J Simpson was just a black athlete being framed for killing two white people. Oh...and, of course, the gloves didn't fit. The second theory being, he might have done it or was somehow involved, but was acquitted of charges as a redemption to all of the targeted blacks of the past. Especially because this trial occurred just years after the Rodney King case. I took both theories into consideration while watching the entire series, so as I reached the end, I could formulate my own side of what happened.
To be politically correct, O.J Simpson was a narcissistic black athlete, who refused to identify with anything other than that.
The overwhelming conflict of evidence lost some of its credibility as questions of the LAPD mishandling the evidence came to light by the second half of the series. And if he were in fact framed, why was there no further pursuit of the alleged person who committed these brutal killings? Race played a major role in the presentation of testimonies and incriminating evidence. Take The Fuhrman Tapes and his testimony for example. Need I say more? The prosecution didn't want to distract the jury from the evidence, but it was almost impossible.
Because I'm a late '80s baby and I couldn't relate with the generation on how they felt during that time, I had to consider if this case was present now how I would feel. Would I, too, be drawn away from the evidence and more to the sensitivities of racial injustice? And the answer is yes. To me, even if this egotistical black man committed these crimes, bringing light to the current state of blacks being targeted does hold more weight. For me as a black woman in the midst of the #BlackLivesMatter movement. And if defending his case to prove his innocence just to prove a point was an option, I think it would be highly considered. The part that makes it difficult is that you feel wrong for dismissing the thought of mourning families, but even more baffled to ignore the black families that have been mourning, mistreated, underrepresented and targeted for decades. And probably many more to come. My blood boils that the same conversation Johnnie Cochran presents to the court back then about racial injustice still stands today.
Before this show, I was a naive individual believing it was all about right or wrong.
To be politically correct, history continues to repeat itself and the O.J Simpson case was yet another platform to allow black voices to be heard. It was, in fact, bigger than OJ.
Lanae Dillard is a nationally published Columnist for entertainment, contributing ideas of news & opinion and love & relationships. She has created a platform for women; which includes testimonials, positive vibes and inspiration through her blog, Everyday Girl. She can be found editing, blogging and reaching the hearts of women around the world. www.everydaygirlblog.com, IG:...