I
don't have the words today--they're still blocked behind the tears
that are choked in my throat when I look upon the sweet brown face of a little boy in my city and wonder if he will live to be a man. I'm tired of watching young men in my
country get killed--by each other, by the police, or by alleged
"do-gooders."
I'm tired of the line in the mind of white America that
sees the death of a Young Black Male as disconnected from us. I'm tired
of the sound barrier that prevents white America from hearing the cries
of mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, grandparents and friends
mourning the loss of a life from theirs. I'm tired of the line
in the heart of white America that sees Young Black Males as "someone
else's" children and their untimely deaths as "somebody else's"
problem.
They are OUR children and their deaths and the injustice that
pulls the trigger is OUR problem.
The fact that being a Young Black
Male IS what it is to be "suspicious" is OUR problem. I say it because
it is a sad truth--my "protection" from not getting shot in my city is
that I'm not a black male between 16 and 24, but that's not okay. None
of this is okay, and whatever it is that insulates you from
understanding that, from feeling it down in the marrow of your bones is a
sickness from which you must free yourself. It is not protecting you,
it is smothering you and stunting our nation. Wake up! A little boy got
shot by a grown man to whom he posed no threat for buying Skittles and an ice tea, and you can turn your eyes
away? Trayvon Martin was not someone else's baby--he is my child, your
child, our children, our future...
No, I don't have the words today.
No, I don't have the words today.
Just this sad, sad sorrow pressing my rib cage into my spine. I
am not a believer, but Jefferson's words (oh, irony) ring true: "I
tremble for my country when I reflect that God is just, that His justice
cannot sleep forever."
May justice roll down from the mountaintops and
wash our country clean.
