Hear me.

I’m tired, y’all. I’m tired and I’m not even old enough to be tired. Im tired of seeing more and more police brutality. I’m tired of people telling me that black-on-black crime is worse and that we (the black community) should be quiet if we aren’t going to address that issue (we have and continue to do so if you’d only pay attention). Murder is intraracial. This means blacks usually kill other blacks, whites usually kill other whites (84% of white murders are perpetuated by other white people), etc. Here’s a newsflash, when black people kill other black people, they’re usually caught, convicted and sentenced to prison–if not killed themselves by rivals. When a cop kills a black man or woman, so far, that cop goes on administrative leave, isn’t indicted, and does not go to jail. See the difference? I’m tired. I’m tired of people telling me more white people are killed by police, without looking at those number in the appropriate context. Are those white people killed by police for being white? Are white people three times more likely to be killed by a cop than black people? No, it’s the other way around. I’m tired of people (mostly white, though some are people of color) making excuses for every crime (yes, crime) cops commit against communities of color. I’m sick of people exclaiming how not every cop is bad, as if inversely every black person is. I’m sick of being terrified when a police squad car drives by me. My heart drops, even though I’m doing nothing wrong. I’m tired of keeping my mouth shut to preserve white comfort and I’m sick of catering to white fragility. I’m just tired, ya’ll. I’m really tired. I’m spent and at this point in my life, I simply don’t have time for anyone who isn’t my ally. I posted something similar to this entry a year ago. Nothing has changed and I’d be foolish to believe it would, but it feels like it has gotten worse. One day, we as a society must come to terms with this. As I said before, I will say again. Race is killing us.

Fatigue

I’ve been walking around with a bitter medicine ball lodged in my throat and the weight of two worlds strapped across my back. This isn’t a pleasant feeling, but that goes without saying.  I’ve been in a funk as a result of my depression (I hate falling back to that tired trope, but there it is) and to add fire to the kerosene, not writing has made it worse. I would be here all day if I elucidated on why I haven’t written anything in so long, so to sum it up, it’s fear. I see a wide road, open and spacious, but dark and foreboding. It’s fear. I am afraid my writing isn’t up to snuff and so I don’t try. It is infantile and cowardly and I am ashamed. I am reminded of something a dear friend said to me, I will paraphrase because I don’t remember it word-for-word, but it was along the lines of just show up. Sometimes just showing up is 90% of the battle. Every successful person I know is a failure and has failed numerous times before finally succeeding. There is that fear of failure, but there is hope. I don’t have to build Mount Olympus in a day. I don’t have to be a “success” immediately. I can stumble, I can fall. What matters is that I get back up. I’m just having a hard time getting back up. It’s a struggle and I suppose that is the way of things in life.

 

This is me, hosing myself off, stepping out of muck and showing up.