I haven’t been writing.
That’s not entirely true. I have entire books written inside my head.
I just can’t commit anything to the physically written word.
The problem is, words don’t matter. I’ve written many words…
- You’ve Heard of Trayvon Martin, in 2012
- Shot, in 2013
- None of That Was Done By Whites, in 2014
- My Son Is Michael Brown, in 2014
- My Son Is Tamir Rice, in 2016
- The Shooter Was Apprehended, in 2018
Nothing. Ever. Changes.
We’re all supposed to wear masks. (One of the other things I just can’t even right now.) My Black, 14-year old son is not safe wearing a mask. No Black person is. I rejected plain masks, he rejected the Black Lives Matter masks. We finally settled on a Chelsea soccer team mask for him. Cassie has a cat face. My hope is that it humanizes them more. So people don’t see brown hair, skin, and eyes and freak out.
I’m seeing a bunch of my white friends post supportive statements.
I’m seeing a bunch of my white friends’ friends post shit like, “I’m white and I’m not privileged” and “all lives matter.”
I like dozens of pages related to race and adoption. Every single one of them has people pouring their hearts out and posting book lists. And I start reading, and my brain just shuts down. I know I need to read more. I know I have a lot to learn. But the fact is, it all seems so futile.
Because my white friends’ friends are still “[his death] wasn’t racially motivated” and “I’m raising my kids to be colorblind.”
Because Congress is full of white senior citizens who are beholden to their donors, and their donors don’t fucking care about Black lives.
Because the Cheeto In Chief isn’t going to allow elections in November. But even if he does, and even if Biden manages to win, and the Cheeto accepts that and gets the fuck out of the White House, Biden is still an old white man who says inappropriate things at completely inappropriate times.
So, what’s the use, really?
Cassie and I went to a march last weekend. We’ll go to another march this weekend. You know what she said to me the other night? “I’m too young to die.”
Yeah. That’s what my EIGHT-year old thinks. And it’s not because the media is creating divisions between us, or because talking about race accentuates our differences. It’s because white privilege is real, these deaths are racially motivated, no one is really colorblind (and they shouldn’t be), and all lives DON’T matter right now.
Maybe I’ll find some words that matter.
Holding to the Ground 