My Love,
This weekend, I stayed in bed longer than I needed to just to hold you tight. As I watched the ceiling fan whir above, my mind raced while thinking of the news about George Floyd. And I prayed harder than I ever have for a hedge of protection to surround you.
I couldn’t bring myself to watch the video until this morning, but when I did, I felt his cries to the officers. “Please, please, I can’t breathe,” he begged. It reminded me of the death of Eric Garner.
More than anything, the video reminded me of the gripping fear that I felt for you, my protector, for the first time. Like George Floyd and Eric Garner, you are a big black man in a world where that in itself is a crime; where being seems to be a crime.
And that breaks my heart.
Who You Are to Me
Though you stand at 6’2, in a just world, your stature wouldn’t be the deciding factor between life and death. Your deep dark skin, which is the color of crude shouldn’t serve as a justification for wrong-doing. Your wide back inked with “Be Strong,” shouldn’t have to carry the weight of the world’s biases. It already carries the burden of being “acceptable” in a country that was built by not accepting you and your ancestors.
As your wife, I am filled with anger for you and all the black men who may or may not look like you. As your best friend, I refuse to allow your story to be told by someone who doesn’t know or love you. I don’t ever want news stories to define who you are and how you lived.
With that said, I promise to tell the world about a man who grew up in North Philly. Like a diamond, you allowed the roughness of your neighborhood to buff at what could have been a hard exterior. Instead, you allowed it to help you shine. I’ll tell the world about the former chess champion who is always thinking a couple of moves ahead. I’ll tell the world about your selflessness to all who know and love you especially me.
You are by no means perfect, but you deserve to be able to look out to a vast sea and city and see endless possibilities. Not limitations.
That is my prayer for you today and always.
When you go out with friends, I always tell you “be safe and be smart.” It sounds simple, but I know for black men, being safe is a luxury — one that many aren’t afforded. So in order to survive, you have to be smart.
And sometimes, even that’s not enough.
A Story About Trauma
This weekend, I fought back tears hearing about a time you were pulled over after coming home from Penn State. You’d only been in the city for two hours before you were face down on the street with a gun pointed at your head. The gun was so close that you could feel the barrel of the gun through your waves.
I imagine you and your friends drove away feeling blessed. You might have stopped and grabbed something to eat. When you arrived home, you would have called me, but I doubt you would have shared that experience with me. You know better than most that I’m a hot head and I would have made it worse.
The only reason I know this story now is because you were with other black men reliving stories of trauma because of the injustice of George Floyd’s murder.
As I type this, tears are pouring down my face because I know about your list of states you don’t ever want to visit. Not because you’re not sure what’s there, but because you don’t want to know what it’s like being there in your skin. Your deep dark skin that is as rich in color as if it were oil itself.
I don’t know what it’s like to be you. I don’t know what it’s like to be a man. And I definitely don’t know what it’s like to be a black man in this country, but I pray for change.
I pray that this country starts to give you and other black men the benefit of the doubt that you mean well. I pray that it believes that your intentions are just as pure as those who showed up to a capital building bearing rifles and walked away unscathed.
That is my prayer for you and all black men who may or may not look like you, Eric Garner, or George Floyd.
With all my love,
Yaszy
