In the past week, the nation has asked all sorts of questions about experiences of Black life in America: who gets to claim it? What implications does it have? What does it look like? Most importantly, what does it mean? I don't have a comprehensive answer for any of those questions. No combination of words could capture the experiences of all Black people. I won't do that here or anywhere. What I can do though, is offer an incomplete answer of the last question. Here goes. |
Sometimes being Black in America means sobbing uncontrollably over the mistreatment or death (read: murder) of people you’ve never even met. Sometimes it means feeling the gravity of that loss even though you wouldn’t have recognized their names just hours before. You cry not just because you think of their families and their friends and the awful reasons and ways they were mistreated or killed. You also cry because that could have been you.
I cry for Clementa Pinckney, Sharonda Coleman-Singleton, Myra Thompson, Tywanza Sanders, Ethel Lee Lance, Cynthia Hurd, Daniel Simmons, DePayne Middleton-Doctor and Susie Jackson because if my grandmother were still alive, you could easily find her leading Bible study and prayer on a Wednesday night.
I cried for Michael Brown because I have some cousins who might seem menacing, and who might not have the cleanest records, but if they were killed, I would only be able to think of the times we played together as children.
I cried for Eric Garner because my brother has asthma. And if he were ever – God forbid – arrested and placed in a chokehold, I worry that his cries for air would be ignored.
I cried for Martese Johnson because he could have been my classmate, my friend, my boyfriend, or any other talented, driven, upstanding Black college man I know.
I cried for Dajerria Becton and her friends because I have worn a bathing suit to a community pool accessorized with a beach towel and strong will, and one day, my future daughter might do the same. I can only wonder what prevented me from having a grown man with a badge force his knee into my lower back and force my face into the grass. I can only wonder what will prevent anyone with a badge from doing the same to my future daughter.
This leads me to wonder – is it selfish for Black people to bring children into this world? Is it wrong to make a child endure what our parents and grandparents and those before them could not have predicted would be happening in our lifetimes? They may not have known that in my lifetime, we would see images that looked like regression. They may not have been able to predict that sun-kissed skin would continue to be a crime punishable by violence and death, that simply existing while Black would lead to so much hurt.
But I do.
Unlike my grandparents and great-grandparents, I cannot confidently say that my children will ever see an America that is free of adamant denial of the existence of racism even in the face of racially-motivated terrorism and deadly profiling.
What I can confidently say, though, is that not having children for that reason would be cowardly and weak – two things that Black people are not known for being.
History and current events show us the strength, resilience and faith that our people possess. This strength may be challenged, but never lost. The resilience may be tested, but never broken. The faith may not be rooted in a Higher Power, but it is always directed at our ability to press on.
For this reason, I do not believe that bringing children into this world is selfish. In fact, it is necessary. I will teach my children, as my parents taught me, that to be Black is something to be proud of. To be Black in this country is to have a history rich in both strife and triumph, one that has cultivated a culture of strength and community.
Sometimes to be Black in America means weeping for lives lost and violence inflicted.
But mostly, to be Black in America means always finding a way to fearlessly press on, not over, and not under, but through the obstacles that surely lie ahead.
I cry for Clementa Pinckney, Sharonda Coleman-Singleton, Myra Thompson, Tywanza Sanders, Ethel Lee Lance, Cynthia Hurd, Daniel Simmons, DePayne Middleton-Doctor and Susie Jackson because if my grandmother were still alive, you could easily find her leading Bible study and prayer on a Wednesday night.
I cried for Michael Brown because I have some cousins who might seem menacing, and who might not have the cleanest records, but if they were killed, I would only be able to think of the times we played together as children.
I cried for Eric Garner because my brother has asthma. And if he were ever – God forbid – arrested and placed in a chokehold, I worry that his cries for air would be ignored.
I cried for Martese Johnson because he could have been my classmate, my friend, my boyfriend, or any other talented, driven, upstanding Black college man I know.
I cried for Dajerria Becton and her friends because I have worn a bathing suit to a community pool accessorized with a beach towel and strong will, and one day, my future daughter might do the same. I can only wonder what prevented me from having a grown man with a badge force his knee into my lower back and force my face into the grass. I can only wonder what will prevent anyone with a badge from doing the same to my future daughter.
This leads me to wonder – is it selfish for Black people to bring children into this world? Is it wrong to make a child endure what our parents and grandparents and those before them could not have predicted would be happening in our lifetimes? They may not have known that in my lifetime, we would see images that looked like regression. They may not have been able to predict that sun-kissed skin would continue to be a crime punishable by violence and death, that simply existing while Black would lead to so much hurt.
But I do.
Unlike my grandparents and great-grandparents, I cannot confidently say that my children will ever see an America that is free of adamant denial of the existence of racism even in the face of racially-motivated terrorism and deadly profiling.
What I can confidently say, though, is that not having children for that reason would be cowardly and weak – two things that Black people are not known for being.
History and current events show us the strength, resilience and faith that our people possess. This strength may be challenged, but never lost. The resilience may be tested, but never broken. The faith may not be rooted in a Higher Power, but it is always directed at our ability to press on.
For this reason, I do not believe that bringing children into this world is selfish. In fact, it is necessary. I will teach my children, as my parents taught me, that to be Black is something to be proud of. To be Black in this country is to have a history rich in both strife and triumph, one that has cultivated a culture of strength and community.
Sometimes to be Black in America means weeping for lives lost and violence inflicted.
But mostly, to be Black in America means always finding a way to fearlessly press on, not over, and not under, but through the obstacles that surely lie ahead.