I Don't Know.
I don’t know how to tell my White friends how I’m feeling this week…
I don’t know how to explain how having cops around has never made me feel safer, but rather, more likely to die that day.
That I worry that I will be shot for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
That the last statement is not hyperbole.
That the NYPD might come to the wrong apartment and due to the lack of repercussions, have no problem gunning me down followed by the media tarnishing my name.
I don’t know how to explain that the reason I don’t fear death is because of things like this–because it can happen to any of us at any time.
I don’t know how to tell my White friends that this is the reality of romanticizing the 40s/50s/60s.
I don’t know how to tell my White friends that I cried this week thinking of my 4 year old nephew and how his mother’s Stanford pedigree will not protect him from the countless people who want to hurt him simply because of the color of his skin.
I don’t know how to explain the overwhelming sense of pride I had being asked to host this week’s episode of Mental Floss on YouTube as substitute for the John Green and subsequently being torn to shreds by racists in the comments section because my “nose is HUUUUUUGE” and having people “turn off the video when I saw it was a Black woman.”
I don’t know what it will take for people to stop acting as if racism ended after slavery/in the 60s/with Obama’s election/when they got a Black friend, etc., etc.,
I don’t know how to make people understand the weight of growing up in a society that thinks you inherently are suspicious.
That being brown means I’m a target and that that’s just okay with everyone.
I don’t know how my White friends will ever empathize with the level of exhaustion I feel from simply trying to help them understand.
I am exhausted.
I don’t know how to explain how alleged shoplifting only results in death for Black bodies.
And how the false equivalence is so easy for some people to make.
I don’t know how to make the people who romanticize dystopian fiction realize that they have no right to turn a blind eye when it is a reality for so many people.
I don’t know how to be my usual funny, upbeat self when I am just. so. tired.
I don’t know how to not cross the line of being socially aware and being an “angry Black woman” when at the end of the day, I am actually very angry.
I don’t know how to explain to deaf ears that racism still exists in glaring ways that affect me every minute of every day.
I’m really sorry I’ve been absent this week. I don’t know…