The events occurring in #Ferguson has consumed every free moment of my day. I search the #Ferguson hashtag and TLs of local residents for the latest news. I’ve watched every vine video @AntonioFrench has posted. Even moved over to his wife’s timeline when he was arrested. I listened to the dispatch calls from the day of the shooting. I live streamed the local news until the story began to gain national attention. Tonight I hopped from Ustream to Ustream until they all became “unavailable.” I even got a little too defensive when someone suggested I was bordering on obsessive. I can’t quite explain why I feel the need to know every detail beyond the fact that it matters to me. There are so many dilemmas both legally and morally that I can’t begin to list which issue is the most terrifying. If it weren’t for social media there would be little to no national awareness about the case. Constitutional rights of journalists and citizens are being blatantly repressed. It’s taken days to get a few moments on national news in between foreign relations and celebrity deaths. Violent reaction to the disregard for human life will not bring about peace. It should neither be condoned nor encouraged on either side of this civil war. I am the single mother of an African American male. I have watched fearfully as our nation begins the sketches for the target they will one day place on my sons back. I’ve immersed myself in the coverage hoping to find a glimmer of hope amidst all of the devastating confusion. I want to believe that there won’t be another fifty years of this. I want to believe that education initiatives will begin to take precedent over penal codes. I want to tell my son that being black isn’t a crime and he should never be ashamed of his skin. Though I will pour all of those wants into his soul I’ll also remind him of a bittersweet truth. In 1619 our hue made its debut to the American colonies. I only have to say great three times to trace a slave in my roots. America’s history cannot be recounted without mentioning the many centuries of slavery, injustice, brutality, and violence our ancestors experienced. My sister and I were the only black girls in our private school. Discussing race relations in history class was my least favorite part of the year. Reactions to discussions about reparations and progress relegated us to being the voice of our entire ethnicity. For many our enrollment was evidence of equality, but the fact that marrying a black man would sever ties with their family was just par for the course. Race is as interwoven in the fabric of America as apple pie. Thin lines of hate have been weaved into the American quilt and it’s time to change the design. History cannot be erased, but trust can be restored. The longer a group feels denied of hope the more desperate they will become. A race with a painful past and a grim future is crying out for help. Access to second hand education robbed us of any opportunity to have a fair start.. We must work twice as hard as our counterpart if we desire a new legacy of generational success. But the reality is when we were finally given a shot to the top we had to move with cement on our feet. Several centuries ago a face that resembled features much like my own was kidnapped from a place she’d always known. No longer surrounded by family or friends she made the best of the pains she’d been given. Each generation birthed from her womb carried a scar from the brand that comes with being owned. The death of #MikeBrown strips us down to the truth. The average price of black human life is still unacceptably low.
Posted on: Thu, 14 Aug 2014 08:08:22 +0000
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