That’s where I found myself… overwhelmed, sad and tired. So much so that I actually went to the doctor. I thought I was sick. I told him that I was just so tired and no matter how much I rested; I never felt like it was enough. Then he asked me about my mental emotional state. At first I was confused. Like, what do my emotions have to do with me being tired? Apparently, everything. My dear friend, restorative justice guru, Dr. Shaniqua Jones says, “Sleep won’t help if it’s your soul that’s tired.”. I don’t know if truer words have ever been spoken. My soul was tired.
I went home that day and reevaluated my… everything. I didn’t even realize how my inability to reconcile my choices against the expectations of other folks was effecting me. This is why it is so important to be dialed into yourself. You need to reflect and question yourself about yourself.
I am so happy to be writing today. Describing the last almost three months as difficult would be a major understatement . I have wanted to write— to tell you what my family and I have been facing. I have wanted to write about the truth of walking my child through a traumatic experience. I have wanted to share the intimate details of a helpless mother… the heartache of watching the best parts of you become the darkest part of you.
But this is my safe space… my joy.
This is a blog read by many people and yet it still feels so intimate to me. I didn’t want to tarnish it by discussing an experience I haven’t healed from. I didn’t want to transfer these negative emotions. I’ve been so angry and sad and angry and enraged.
Imagine a female president or vice-president—Not just on television, but in real life. I mean, I love the idea of women knocking over walls and breaking glass ceilings. I just don’t want it at the expense of someone standing on my head.
Growing up Black is a be seen and not heard kind of existence. In my experience, to find a Black child with the authority to fully BE, in the presence of adults is the exception; not the rule. Control, rules, excellence and respectability are major components of the Black child rearing experience. Black children need to grow up with their shit together. This didn’t happen in a vacuum. It’s a direct result of slavery, Jim Crow, the Civil Rights Era and a post racial America *side eye*. The privilege of speaking about anything at anytime was snatched from us and whipped out of us on slave ships, auction blocks, in the fields and in the big house.
Saying the “wrong” thing or being at the “wrong” place at that time could get an adult or even a child, literally killed— It still can. We have too many examples. Being seen and not heard is not a simplified way to parent; it’s a safety mechanism. Part of the Black experience is simply trying to keep your children alive in a way that it isn’t true for other races. The same is true of how we are steered towards career choices. Careers that are perceived as frivolous, i.e. dancer, artist or musician are not routinely supported.
We live in an age where even when it’s your fault; you don’t want to be held accountable. The issue is so pervasive that not only don’t you want to be caught— you don’t want perfect strangers to be caught either. That’s the reason I used to flick my lights at people I didn’t know. I was projecting my desire to not be reprimanded or punished by letting other people know how not to get caught.
Today I am writing to reach the sensibilities and cognitive capabilities of good White folks. The power to change the status quo lies primarily with you. You need to say something... At your dinner tables, at your school board meetings, at the deli counter. You know racists. Your neighbors, family and friends express racially charged sentiments that apologetically end with, “you know what I mean.” Or “I don’t mean it like that. You know I’m not racist.” You must call them out.
