When the pigs who killed Tamir Rice weren’t indicted, an inexplicable feeling roused my Being. It was a dull, palpitating ache — a pain both loud and silent. Unfamiliar, yet recognizable.
This ache was smeared in exhaustion and non-surprise. This ache was mundane and common to me. An ailment that wasn’t externally debilitating, but was internally omnipresent.
The pain reverberated through the chambers of my Spirit, but could not escape the crevices of my lips.
I have no words to express my anger. I have no words to express my disgust towards a blatantly racist criminal (in)justice system that fails to hold accountable trigger happy cops lacking in restraint, unable to imprison their mongrelized fantasies of Black boys.
As a cultural critic deeply invested in pro-Black radical ideology, I am spirited when writing narratives that reflect the unencumbered reality of Blackness. My gift is in my ability to wield my pen. My offering to the public forum of Blackness are my words, analyses, and reflections. I wish to leave a legacy; a digital footprint that Black children of the future can turn to when Liberation soon comes.
And yet, I was frozen. My prospective words were invisible and foreign.
In watching Tamir Rice — a 12 year old visionary taken viciously, prematurely, and unceremoniously — get slaughtered by fragile racist subhumans, and subsequently blamed for his own death … I felt failure. That I had failed him. I failed to revive, protect, console, or comfort him.
And I thought of Aiyana Stanley-Jones, the seven year old visionary executed in her own home. And Laquan McDonald, mercilessly shot 16 times. And Jordan Davis, murdered for blasting music. And Sandra Bland, murdered behind jail doors for daring to be bold in her knowledge of the law.
I feel failure when I see the regular demagogues — both Black and white — exploiting tragedies for personal gain. From the white supremacist propagandists reassuring the white racist majority that these
niggers “thugs” had it coming. To the Black puppeteers strategically positioned to quash Black revolt.
This sense of failure was the basis of that enigmatic ache that stunted me.
Black Liberation is the damned reality of three steps forward, two steps back.
We’ve realized the right to vote … until the Supreme Court says otherwise, and local politicos implement restrictive voter identification laws.
We’ve realized police brutality is a public health issue … that body cams can magically cure.
We’ve realized “diversity” is nonexistent in the tech world… so Twitter hires a white guy to lead the effort in reaching out to communities of color.
And in the socio-political world of half-measures and soundbites, Black kids are dying.
Fighting for Black Liberation is rewarding and worrisome. Sometimes it hurts and is (re)traumatizing. And sometimes … when the feeling of hopelessness and helplessness kicks in … I regret exposing myself to this sickening ambience of failure.
*Featured Image Credit: www.flickr.com