Breathe Again

I was born at the pinnacle of the Civil Rights Movement. 1965 was a year of heated unrest as the summer brought an historical riot in Watts, a stone's throw from my family's home in Compton, CA. As I grew up, I knew who I was very early: A black child, living in a suburb of Los Angeles, CA, in a country where white people treated black people differently. It was as basic as that, yet my family always made sure that I knew that excellence was expected of me, despite the circumstances. The "Twice as Good" mentality was the paradigm of choice, which fostered a strong competitive spirit within me to always be a winner.

 

Yet, the images of the plight of my people were always around me, and the obstacles black people faced were a part of what I saw and heard. The adults in my house would speak about unfairness and "prejudice" - a word I learned very early, and news broadcasts on our black and white television told of people marching, buildings burning and people hanging from trees. Our air has been cut off for centuries. 

Black men died at the hands of the KuKluxKlan or racist mobs almost every day. I saw pictures of burnt bodies, lynched and mutilated, and wondered how and why? My little brain catalogued this time in history. We all believed it would change, eventually. And, for a while, it almost seemed like it would.

 I gave birth to two sons and married a black man believing in my heart that they would live in a world where they could walk the streets, drive in their cars, stand up for themselves with no concern or fear for their lives or safety, but the space to be and breathe freely comes at a great price, mentally, emotionally and physically. 

Photo credit: NBC News

That belief is nothing but a false hope. Fifty-five years later, it's still happening. It has happened my whole life, my parents' whole life, my grandparents' whole life, my great-grandparents' whole life. This experiential trauma is in the blood of my ancestors. Something a white person will never, ever know, for to simply walk and breathe without question is their privilege. 

And the clock has turned back with alarming speed. Five years ago, we saw time reverse itself during the Ferguson unrest, and now, with the death of George Floyd, time has frozen, yet has opened a floodgate of resistance and rebellion like never before. The stories have not changed, and we are tired. The photos are hauntingly telling of the real truth in our society: The hate in this place we must call home is alive and clearly present. And the men and boys in my life are still in danger just because they are painted a different color, the very breath taken from their lungs at the hands of a police officer. 

We cannot take a run in our neighborhood. 

photo credit: stltoday.com

We cannot drive with a left tail light out.
We cannot drive with a right tail light out.
We cannot drive without our front license plate attached.
We cannot speed.
We cannot walk down the sidewalk.
We cannot wait for the subway.
We cannot buy cigarettes from a liquor store.
We cannot walk with a soft drink and candy, wearing a hooded sweatshirt.

We cannot play in the park.

We cannot watch birds. 

We cannot find refuge and calm in our own homes. 
We cannot be regular fun-seeking teens at a pool party by mistake.
If we break the law, we die. We will breathe our last breath, alone on the street, at the end of a gun or under the knee of excessive force. For us, there is no room for mistakes.

We are still burdened with having to tell our children the Story of the Other Rule Book. And sometimes they are made believers the hard way. Many of them pay with their lives.

Photo credit: Fox 5 Washington DC

These men and boys were not all perfect. Like anyone, some made choices that may not have been the best, but there was no room given for retrospect, for self-reflection or correction. We do not get a second chance. Yet, above all, the ones who love them most are left empty and stripped. Their communities are without one more role model, father, brother, friend. We as a people are reduced. Again.

But this time, we are not silent. Because enough is enough. We are living in a time where holding our tongue and being a watcher will cost us our freedom and will be a petition of complacency and compromise. 

I have read so many posts, so many comments with different perspectives on the rebellions and uprisings that canvas our nation right now. My words have been hard to come because my heart is so full, yet it is my responsibility to speak out to include my voice as a piece of this collective tapestry in history. I need to speak my truth. 

Plain and simple: I am an African American woman who is a descendant of slaves. My ancestors came here against their will, and were stripped of every, single fiber of their being and forced to live a life equivalent to the lowest of animals. From there, we have fought for equality of the very basic rights afforded to every American citizen, yet have struggled greatly in that quest. We are looked upon as less than, yet our contributions to this country are clearly present in every single aspect. We are, without a doubt, the flavor of this nation, but we have never had the inheritance of being wholly, and fully recognized as being among the foundational and integral part of the American portrait. 

We live with bias, racism, prejudice, marginalization and misunderstanding each and every day. We, black people. If you are white, you have no idea what that is like. You do not know what it is like to live in a body that can bring an unpredictable threat to you at any time. I walk through life as a Black woman, and the bias I have experienced as a woman pales in comparison to the myriad of random microaggressions that come my way as I live through my day. As a white human being, that consciousness is non-existent. I can only wonder what it is like to simply be assessed by others based on my skills, my talent and my character, without always wondering if the energy I am feeling in awkward situations is because I am a body enveloped in black skin? 

As a mother of two sons, I have done my best to raise them to be strong, intelligent, loving men who will make great contributions to the good of the world by doing their part to make it a just and peaceful planet. That may not seem different than any other parent, but with that rearing comes the additional instruction of breaking to them the sad news that not everyone will see you as the amazing people they are; some will see them as a threat, or some will see them as not as smart, or some will not appreciate their worth, all because they are black. They will not have the chance to be taken at face value, because their face is all some people are willing to see. 

 A white mother doesn't have to tell her child:

• Don’t go anywhere by yourself
• If you get stopped, have your paperwork out already so the police have no cause to linger
• If you see a cop, roll down your window
• Don't talk too loud in public
• Keep your hands on the steering wheel
• Don't hang out in one spot too long
• Know what you're going to get while you shop before you go into the store
• Keep your hands out of your pockets
• Don't walk too close to them on the sidewalk
• Always have a witness
• If it gets too late or too dark, stay where you are
• Keep your phone juiced up
• Share your location with us
• Wear lighter colors

So, in essence, we pretty much tell our kids to work to be their best, but try to do it without being seen, don't take up too much space.  If we are remiss in our actions to remind them, they may not come home alive. 

                                                                                   

 

These are our sons. They live in our eyes and we see them. Beautiful, bold and smart. They smile, laugh, sleep, get hungry, work hard, have gifts and talents, say funny things, walk like their grandpas, act like their daddies, love their moms, blow candles out, slide into home, and have dreams and ambitions that they hope will carry them into the future. They have good days, and bad days, worse days and better days. Just like anyone. 

Now, they refuse to be invisible. They refuse to be subjected to random acts of violence and police brutality, and we stand with them. Today, we claim the right to breathe without fear.

No More.