I'm Thankful For Being Black

***Annoyingly I did not charge my laptop but luckily these little mobile innovations were created to not only keep me entertained while I wait to board, but give me the ability to update today!

It’s been a pretty heavy year what with the influx of news sources covering police brutality that has been plaguing the black community for years, the rise and growth of the Black Lives Matter movement, this new, open conversation about race that’s been popping up all over the Internet, and the general sense of frustration many have with the way the world is solving problems and how the media is portraying conflict(s). In this mess of frustration and realization I wanted to write about one thing I’m very thankful for and don’t get to say often and certainly don’t hear often enough and that is: I’m thankful I was born in this brown body and I’m happy to tell you why.

I didn’t always think about how great being black was. Due to the one-dimensional, prejudice portrayal of black people, black women in particular I used to be afraid of the way white people would perceive me without even opening my mouth. It used to give me anxiety to enter into a world full of preconceived notions and know I had no way of being seen as an individual or be given the benefit of the doubt. It made me scared to know my word against a white person’s was null and void in some situations. It made me angry that when white people mimic black culture they were seen as edgy while my own people were seen as “hood” or “ghetto.” Then I realized something. It’s something Eleanor Roosevelt said I think. Something along the lines of, the only way other people can put you down is if you let them.

There was a turning point for me in college when I gave up on allowing others to dictate who I was and let people tell me “how to be black.” Instead I embraced myself as I was, a black woman tied to history of violence and unfairness. A black woman whose ancestors fought struggled and persevered in a nation built against them. I found myself feeling proud and less angry with the way society viewed me but began pitying those that were racist or prejudice. It’s truly a mental illness to hate another human being because of the color of their skin. I used to feel like I wasn’t black enough because I was trying to define myself through society’s eyes instead of reality. My people are not afforded the luxury of individualism upon first glance, but that does not mean it doesn’t exist within our beautiful culture that has endured for years.

I’m thankful for being black because of dual consciousness and to represent a history this country is continuously trying to forget. I’m thankful to come from a people who have overcome obstacles beyond comprehension and thrived in perpetual adversity.

I’m thankful for a family that encouraged me to be who I am and accepted me without question. I’m thankful for people in my life that continue to amaze and surprise me with their open minds and hearts. I’m thankful for finding love that makes me smile from ear to ear like an idiot. I’m thankful for the way activists are clinging to causes and fighting for change that needed to happen hundreds of years ago. I’m thankful for the people who have woken up and realized slavery is still alive today in the form of institutional racism and not so subtle rhetoric in the media, but I’m also sorry.

I’m sorry for all of those men and women who were murdered by the very people who were supposed to protect and serve. I’m sorry their families won’t be able to enjoy anymore holidays with their smiling faces. I’m sorry this world has such a long way to go in terms of unity and equality. I’m sorry that this holiday of thanks is steeped in blood and subsequently so is this country’s sordid past. I’m sorry for all of the people who lost their lives due to radical fundamentalist views (IN EVERY RELIGION).

One last thing. I know race is “just a construct,” but until society recognizes this truth, it’s simply not.

Also, sorry for any typos. Not writing on a laptop is rough.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Keep Fighting Ferguson

I don’t need to read the endless reports on what happened to young Michael Brown who is referred to as a man in all of these articles, but was really just a kid. He was just starting out his life, full of hope and possibilities when he was slain by a police officer for no reason. NO REASON. The deplorable actions of the police department to somehow muddy his name by releasing images of him wearing baggy clothes or posing a certain way is absolutely unconscionable. Police brutality is not new. It’s been happening for decades, sprinkled in local news like a flash in the pan, covered so thoughtlessly the nation was able to stay blissfully ignorant of the atrocities committed by the very people who are suppose to protect for so many years, but the blissful ignorance has ended and now it’s time to face reality.

I’m going to be really honest here and say I have never felt particularly safe around law enforcement. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve always felt this odd, almost combative, ego that emanates off of a lot of people in uniform as they strut around with firearms on their hips and prejudice in their minds.

Over one steamy summer in Miami, when I was in high school, one of my friends threw a party for their birthday and invited a whole bunch of us over to hang out and eat cake. The neighborhood we were hanging out in was predominantly white and upper-middle class. The building had some pretentious-sounding name and we had to check-in with the door man before going up to the “party floor.” While we were hanging out, a few of our friends-who were kids of color-decided to walk to Walgreens for snacks or whatnot and told us they’d be back soon. Walgreens was only a few blocks away and the rest of us nonchalantly waved them goodbye. After forty minutes of not hearing from either of them, we were wondered what happened. Then my friend who’s birthday it was got a phone call. As she listened to the voice on the other end, her face fell and she became nervous and distraught. “What happened,” someone asked gently. “(So and so) are downstairs with the cops.” All of us looked at each other with pure bewilderment. The kids in questions were the most docile humans. They were the sweetest and funniest people I knew and it was mind-boggling to hear they were involved in anything that would require the attention of police. Well, obviously, they weren’t. On their way back from Walgreens they were accosted by the police for no reason other than being minorities in that mostly white neighborhood. We all went downstairs to find them handcuffed and silent with the crushing combination of hopelessness and fear in their eyes. 

The police puffed out their chests once we were all downstairs, us staring in confusion at what was transpiring. Why were there so many cops? What did they think was going on? Why were they asking them the stupidest questions?
“What were you doing walking around here so late?” One haughty cop asked.
They looked at each other, handcuffs tight around their innocent, young wrists, and one friend answered simply, “We just went to get some soda from Walgreens and were walking back to our friend’s house.” At this point, my friend who’s apartment parking lot was now a circus for uniformed clowns, was crying and pleading with the police to let our friends go because they didn’t do anything wrong (they really didn’t) and kept repeating that it was her birthday in hopes one of these lumps had a heart (and a conscience) to realize what a pitiful situation this was and completely uncalled for. Finally, after what seemed like an hour (it was probably more like 20 minutes) they let them go with a “warning” and we all left, heads down with the pressure of having witnessed the too-real events that made us feel the heavy weight of race inequality in America.

That wasn’t even that bad of an interaction. It pales in comparison to the senseless violence that has been plaguing the black community for as long as we’ve been in this country. Yet, even that mild brush with the popo is significant because it’s something that happens everyday. It’s significant because black men are subject to Stop & Frisk everyday. Because black men are not seen as people, but this scary fantasy created by a period in society that America refuses to acknowledge, which is pretty much directly responsible for the accepted violence and violation that has been going on for years. I’m like a broken record folks, yep, slavery. No. We are not fully passed it as a nation and it has spurred all of my personal favorite racially-charged events in history, such as the always wonderful entertainment called Black Face that openly mocked black people and let’s not forget those always fun Jim Crow Laws that basically gave white people the right to treat blacks like non-citizens. “Separate but equal?!” Who the hell thought that was okay?! Oh yeah, white people in power. These are things in history that are STILL HAPPENING TODAY. Remember those idiot kids in whateverville who wore black face for a photo? Segregation? Must I give ANYONE an example of that?! Ok, fine GENTRIFICATION.

When people say, “Chris, get over it.” I say, “Screw you.”

I won’t “get over it” until this country is safe for everyone. I won’t “get over it” until I can imagine a young black man walking carefree down the street in a hoodie listening to hip hop music with his pants hanging as low as he wants without fear of being shot or feared. I won’t “get over it” until there is actual justice when black men are gunned down or tortured because some white person feels threatened. Yes, that was a reference to Emmett Till who was FOURTEEN YEARS OLD when he was brutally murdered by some hokey townsfolk who, like someone else in the recent past, thought they would take the law into their own hands and administer a punishment that wasn’t only beyond inhumane, but truly, purely evil. I won’t “get over it” until there is a stop to systemic racism, to institutional racism, to plain hate that is accepted and coddled to a point where either most of the country is oblivious to it or they’re in denial. 

Ferguson is the eye-opener this country needed. It is an amazing culmination, years in the making, of outrage, weariness, persistence, and solidarity. What happened in Ferguson, what happened in Sanford, what happened in Los Angeles, what happened in Beavercreek,  what happened right here in NYC, what’s been happening all over this country is unfathomable and unacceptable. I know there has been some discussion about how people don’t want these protests to be called riots, but peaceful gatherings, and I think that’s wonderful.  Though, I can honestly understand how years of frustration with the way this country has been treating us can be a catalyst to unleash some passionate feelings that have been percolating beneath the surface. It’s not so much rioting as letting out a long, angry sigh. I hope everyone protesting in Ferguson and anyone who is standing up for humanity is staying safe out there. Be vigilant, be safe, and be smart.

We shall overcome.

Stop Shooting My Little Brother

This country has gone through a lot in regards to race relations in the past oh fifty years. It’s always jarring realizing the Civil Rights Movement was not that long ago and that progress albeit progress has not been anywhere near what MLK envisioned. Sure, little black boys can hold hands with little white girls, if the black boy is seemingly nonthreatening and wearing a suit.

All of our notions about race are just so systematically ingrained in legislation, in media, in bigoted ideas passed down from ignorant generation to the next it’s hard to see a future where none of that exists. 

The mistreatment of people of color is forever torched into American history with a flame that has extinguished hope, burned an unrelenting inferiority complex into millions and laid waste to humanity in a way that is almost irreparable. 

American Slavery is a big deal. It was more than humans being stripped of basic rights, it was more than families living in constant fear of being ripped apart, it was more than slaves being whipped and beaten by slave masters on a whim, it was more than the human spirit being tortured to the point of suicide, it was more than every violent action done to a person you can think of, it was more than dismantling the laws of human nature. Slavery ruined- no, poisoned the hearts and minds of this county and its ramifications continued to haunt our present in ways nobody wants to admit.

During the Civil Rights movement there seemed to be a special place of hatred and violence singularly preserved for black men. They were the main enemy in the minds of millions of Americans because of the mere color of their skin.Their presence was a threat and their lives an afterthought. 

Skin color was (in some minds still is whether it’s admitted or not) equated to intellect, reasoning, responsibility, the capacity for love and understanding. In slavery black people were not allowed to be perceived as human, holding all of these qualities, along with an astounding magnitude of hope, because then the reality that humans were being treated as cattle would settle in and demolish the whole notion of free, renewable resources (HUMANS). 

Again, I talk about slavery because for me that, later to be repackaged as institutional racism, can be the only source of all the unapologetic violence constantly berating the black community for so many years. We have come from an incomprehensible amount of pain and broken spirits to get to where we are today. I am apart of a community that is bigger than me, that holds a diverse array of minds. I am apart of a community that has been and continues to be subjected to atrocious mistreatment and injustice over and over again.

It scares me that black boys are continuously getting shot or beaten with no hope for justice. It scares me that the system that is suppose to protect the lives of all Americans has been so lax with defending the rights of some. It’s even more frustrating that the justice system ignores the harrowing implications of these injustices.

More importantly, it scares me that I have a little brother in Florida who just wants to hang out and be a teenager, but can’t be because being a black teenage boy in Florida can get you killed.

My little brother is tall for his age. He’s lanky and goofy and is one of the funniest people I know. I love talking to him because he has this airy demeanor of wisdom sometimes or this refreshing, wide-eyed infectious curiosity. He asks me questions about life and listens to my clumsy answers with a furrowed brow and at those moments I feel humbled that he actually sits there and listens. We talk about his dreams of becoming the next Dwayne Wade, but I always tell him he could be the next Neil Degrasse Tyson. I love my little brother. I love him so much it makes me want to cry when I hear about these shootings. And I do. I have. I’m crying as I write this. I honestly don’t know what I would do or how I would react if anything happened to him. It makes me crazy even thinking about it.

It makes me physically ill knowing families have lost pieces of themselves because of unfathomable hatred. It makes me angry that there is nothing I can do to quell the rage or sadness the families must feel.

This has got to stop.

Plain and simple.

There is no excuse for this blatant disregard for human life. I don’t feel safe in this country knowing guns are in the hands of maniacs and guilty people get away with murder. 

This is definitely a gun issue, but even more seriously it’s a human rights issue.

It’s time to start protesting. It’s time to start taking action. We cannot keep living like this.