This week has been crazy with the news and social media
blowing up regarding the Michael Brown verdict. My friends and I have been
going back on forth about it, too. Some of our conversations have been pretty
heated, and I must admit, I’ve been a lot more vocal about it than other
similar situations. Then, after viewing this particular piece online,
I was livid! I remember having an hour or so long conversation with my brother
and close friend two mornings ago. We each expressed our common concern for what
the verdict implies to us as ‘black folk’ in America: there’s a target on our young
men’s backs, and we all must thus walk circumspectly.
I didn’t realize, as usual, that my little church mouse was
within hearing distance, doing her best to understand the reason behind our
escalating conversation. I guess in her little mind, she knew we were upset
about something, but since she was supposed to be upstairs working on her
ABCMouse app, she would get in trouble if she intruded.
At the end of the discussion, we ended up agreeing that we
were lucky to live in Arizona, despite the occasional racial profiling. I
encouraged my brother to be mindful of what he wears, so he doesn’t, or shouldn’t,
appear thuggish (whatever that means). I informed him that even as a black
individual, I clutch my purse a little tighter when passing by a black male
with sagging pants, unkempt hair, rough or hard-looking face with “shifty eyes”,
especially if there are more than one of them and they are talking loudly and
walking toward me. I’m not sure what it is, but it makes me uneasy and causes
my heart to beat just a little faster until we pass one another or I act like I
have a reason to cross the street, if I’m with my children.
I’ve expressed this to others in the past, and it seems it is
more of a common feeling than I thought. I’m black, and I’m often scared of my
fellow black brothers, much more so than their counterpart Caucasian homeys who
don the same attire, even with pants sagging lower, hats cocked to the side,
obviously smoking weed, or speaking in slang I totally can’t understand,
bumping their rap music with explicit lyrics as loud as if they were having a
house party.
Over the years, I guess my church mouse has observed,
overheard talks of, and experienced racism. On more than one occasion, she has
asked why “the old white people” at the grocery never respond to her greetings
or waves. Some smile at her until they see me walk up next to her or call her
name and ask for her hand. Others simply look at and ignore her. I’ve explained
to her that many of them, being older, lived in a time where they didn’t
understand the beauty of black people. After all, how else would I explain it
to her at four years old?
I think what stopped me my steps though is when my brother shared
that on Wednesday morning, she had asked him why white people don’t like black
people. Later on that day, I asked why she would think that, and she simply
replied, “I just know, Mommy,” and my heart sunk. I assured her that was not
the case, noting that her father’s side of the family loves us, but I guess she
had never really placed a color on them in relation to me (the darkest person in
the family). In that one moment, with that explanation, I ruined her colorless
perspective of them.
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