“It’s not real”
Last summer I wrote a piece connecting my brother to the death of Trayvon Martin. Almost exactly one year after that piece here i am again. Except this time words, which usually come so easily for me, are escaping me. Language is not expansive enough, descriptive enough, or direct enough in situations of life and death. There is no way to satisfactorily convey to someone the pain my people and I feel every day knowing that there is no pep talk we can give, no manners we can instill, no amount of knowledge we can share to prepare our children for the experience of being Black in the United States of America.
I can not satisfactorily convey to you how many people see their own sons and daughters in Trayvon Martin, Renisha McBride, John Crawford, Eric Garner and Michael Brown. I can not explain to you that this is not the first time we have had to go through this and it certainly will not be the last. There is no way I can make you understand how terrifying that is.
We have reached a point where our leaders will no longer speak out on our behalf. Where black bodies are used once again as target practice for american violence. Where other people’s perceptions mean more than our realities.
To be black in America is to be terrorized.
To be black in American is to be exploited.
To be black in America is to be dehumanized, degraded, and denied.
I am tired of not being heard.
I am tired of writing poems in response to the murder of my people.
I am tired of being silenced.
I am tired, but I will not relent.
“I can’t breathe, I can’t breath”