Photograph: Jim Lo Scalzo/EPA
James Baldwin wrote, “to be a Negro in this country and to be relatively conscious is to be in rage almost all the time.”
I agree.
I. Am. Angry. I am outraged. I am frustrated. And I am heartbroken for Breonna Taylor. For Elijah McClain. For Ahmaud Arbery. For George Floyd. For each of their loved ones. For the fact that their lives were reduced to hashtags. For Jacob Blake who was this close to becoming one after police shot him in the back seven times in front of his kids. For those who were wrongfully murdered before them. For those who will be murdered after them. For those whose lives won’t even be a footnote in the history of this country.
I. Am. Angry. I am outraged. I am frustrated. And I am heartbroken by the never-ending murders. I am angry by the blatant injustice to black and brown victims in this country where “all men are created equal.” I am angry by the real-life target practice that seems to be common in every police department in these United States of America.
It’s not that in-your-face, hear-me-roar type of anger. No, no, no, no, no. As a Black woman, my anger has to be a quiet fire burning in my soul. It has to be pleasant, approachable and subdued. You know, unless I want to be labeled as an “Angry Black Woman.”
But there was that one time in Mexico. I was still reeling from the murder of George Floyd only I didn’t know it. So, I was what my friend said was “aggressive” towards a Mexican police officer.
Long story short: A man driving a Moped hit our rental while we were going through an intersection. Because I was the only one who kind-of speaks Spanish, I took the lead. Every time the police officer would ask the other driver a question, I would ask her to interpret for my friends. When she asked to take a picture of my friend’s ID, I asked if she was going to ask for the other driver’s ID, too. She didn’t, so I did, in Spanish. And when she asked my friends “were you drinking,” I asked if she asked the other driver that, too. After all, he hit us leaving a huge dent and scratch above the rear tire of our minivan.
You and I know that she didn’t.
In hindsight, I see the severity of the situation. Anything could have happened to us and our loved ones wouldn’t know. I was wrong. I can admit that now.
But.
At that moment, it was clear to me that we weren’t going to receive the benefit of the doubt. It’s possible that how the police officer treated us had more to do with the fact that we were Americans. It’s possible it had nothing to do with our black skin. And maybe, to them, black skin isn’t an automatic admission of guilt. Maybe. But I can’t lie that it didn’t feel that way.
My heart was pure. I was trying to help. But, I can admit that my anger because of the injustices towards Black people got the best of me. And call me proud, but I didn’t want to settle as a victim out of fear. Not because there’s an unfair imbalance apparently, no matter where we travel. Or live for that matter.
I. Am. Tired. And I Am Angry AF. That’s why I confronted that Mexican police officer. For others—and I don’t condone this—anger might mean looting, destroying property, or burning some sh*t.
Again, I don’t condone it, but I understand it.
At this point, we’ve done all that we can do. We’ve peacefully protested, we’ve recorded instances with police and we’ve adhered to laws to the best of our ability.
And for what?
For what?
There’s still no justice and no peace when it comes to Black and brown people.
In our country, police can murder you in your sleep and it will take months for sentencing. In our country only one of your murderers will get sentenced when they’re on the city’s payroll. In our country, one out of three of your murderers will get sentenced for the shots he missed. You know, the ones that put your neighbors in harm’s way. Not the ones that pierced through your skin, flesh and bones. Not the ones that took you last in final breath. In our country, the potential of harm for others holds more weight than the demise of Black and brown life.
This is our country. And this is why we’re angry AF.
