Authentically Flawed

This past week, video footage was released of two separate incidents of young black men being murdered. 21 year-old Sean Reed and 25 year-old Ahmaud Arbery were both fatally shot on camera, and in addition to the rage I feel for the racism that still plagues both our society and our legal system, I’m scared. My love is a black man, and every time he goes out into the world, a little part of me worries for his life. If he had a run-in with an armed racist, would they see all that he is to me, to the world?

Would they see a loving father of two beautiful young women?

Would they see a retired member of the United States Air Force who served his country for a decade?

Would they see a talented artist who meditates regularly in his studio?

No. Of course not. They’d see a 6’4″ black man. A threat. Presumed guilty of something. Someone to be feared. Someone to be pursued. Someone to be silenced.

As a woman of mixed race, I feel a range of mixed emotions. First and foremost, I am angry. I listen to the thin and pathetic excuses presented by those who so carelessly take a life and it enrages me. “I was afraid for my life.” Really? Afraid of an unarmed man? Even if he was engaged in aggressive behavior, when did it become acceptable to take a life, vs. taking an ass whooping? When I was a kid, we had to fight it out in the streets. If you lost, you lost, but you went home and got stronger, and learned what to do in the next fight. But you lived to fight. And the inverse of this scenario could never be true. If my 6’4″ black man and I went out in a truck, armed with firearms, and shot and killed a young white man “in fear for our lives”, there would be no chance for us to cover it up. There would be no sheriff or prosecutor friend of ours that could bury the case. There would be no benefit of the doubt. There would likely be no trial. There would likely just be a public execution. We’d never get to claim that the young white man was threatening us, or that he had a criminal past, or that he physically attacked us. When the time came to tell the story, they’d demonize us. Two kids from the ‘hood who were pretending to exist in this ‘civilized’ society. They’d pull the most angelic photos of that young white man and the most damaging photos of us and splash them side by side to perpetuate the narrative that black men and women are criminals, and white people must protect themselves against them at all costs. Up to and including taking innocent human life.

I also feel betrayed. It’s a vicious internal struggle to have to look at my brothers and sisters, knowing that it’s people who look like half my ancestry that are responsible for perpetuating this violence and hatred. I love my father dearly, but we are only one generation removed from racism within our own family. Sure, my grandparents eventually came to tolerate my mother, but tolerance is not the same as love. As black people, we are tolerated in this country, to the extent that we play by the rules, don’t step out of line, don’t get too loud or too powerful, or too organized, or too successful.

Last, there’s the fear. It’s not constant fear, it’s not all-consuming fear. It’s like a hangnail. It’s that nagging, irritating feeling that comes on once in awhile and lingers for a bit. It comes and goes. But it’s not a fear that should exist. I should be able to love this man without worrying that he might get pulled over by an officer with a grudge. Or a new officer pursuing some bullshit lead where Jay vaguely fits the description of some suspect. I should be able to watch him jog out the front door without saying a little prayer that he makes it back safely. That he doesn’t get stopped and harassed because of what he looks like.

To be clear, I don’t believe that all white people are racist or malicious; I know that’s not the case. I don’t have any comforting words for the families that have tragically lost their loved ones (and there are far too many of them). What I do have is this. To my brothers, all the black men out there who are taking care of their babies and their families, who put love and light into a world that is working around the clock to hold them in the darkness, who continue to educate themselves and their communities, and rise above the hate: I see you and I appreciate you. You are loved. You deserve better. To my beautiful black man in particular: you’re a gift and I am grateful for you. I love you baby.