Black Grief is Never Fair
The recent shootings of two Black boys in North Carolina opened memories of my time in school, from elementary to high school, and the violence I witnessed. This violence hurts me on so many levels because there are families impacted, and, more importantly, death disrupts innocence, life, and it is never fair.
It is never fair for Black people, wherever they may be, exist to have to fear other Black people. It is traumatic for Black people to see another Black person beat them, hurt them, and kill them.
Many factors contribute to the harm, death of Black people at the hands of other Black people. First, we know that one of the things that run underneath the need to end a Black life or threaten a Black life is the inability to see Blackness as valuable. Second, we know that one of the things that run underneath the need to end a Black life or threaten a Black life is the inability to love and, more importantly, the failure to love and embrace Blackness.
We know that another thing that runs underneath the need to end a Black life, or threaten a Black life, is the socialization that “it is either you or me” or “because you’re different from me, then you are a threat.” These messages show up in neighborhoods pitted against neighborhoods, in colors of clothing pitted against another color of clothing, and many other ways.
We know that what runs underneath the need to end a Black life or threaten a Black life is a need to express some form of power, feel powerful, and not be perceived as weak. It shows in projecting; a Black man projecting his powerlessness and exerting his power and dominance against a Black woman. The young Black boy using a gun to claim power over another and feeling the need to enact violence to project strength versus weakness.
We know that what runs underneath the need to end a Black life or threaten a Black life is an idea that I have to fight or protect the little thing I have, whatever it is, because if not, then I will lose it, I will lose myself. I witnessed these messages live out in the consciousness and behavior of young people when I spent half of my childhood and adolescence in Camden, NJ.
When I moved to Camden, NJ, from Kansas City, MO, I was in the second grade. I was in an elementary school, where the primary student population was either Black or a combination of folks from Puerto Rico, the Dominican Republic, and other Caribbean islands. Other students teased me for “talking funny”. In second grade, I had my first official fight, a fight that stemmed from a group of children choosing an afternoon moment on a playground to tease me, push me around, and push me on the ground. After that, fighting became a constant for me and always happened every time I came back to Camden, NJ.
In elementary, middle, and high school, fighting was common in my schools, and violence and death were always near. In middle school, the murder of a young Black boy who recently moved from California to Camden became a story. His murderers left his body on the roof of my middle school. All of us who knew him had to swallow our grief; we knew he would get “it “ because he came to Camden talking about his affiliation with Crips. Although Camden did not have Crips back then, the neighborhood groups did not like him and they jumped him several times before police found him dead.
While I did not live in the same neighborhood of the “drug sets” in East Camden, there were fights that happened at school between “Eutaw Street” and “32nd Street”. Of course, most of these fights happened between the boys, but girls were getting in it too. I was one of those girls who believed I had to fight, I had to bully, or surely, I would be the victim and seen as weak. There was no joy in fighting or any joy in witnessing it; it was just a thing you did to survive.
I remember this one guy in my high school; he was light-skinned, and you could tell he felt he had to prove something, prove how tough he was. One day I watched him walk into school with his head held high; he was battered and bruised. He had cuts across his face, his head, on his knuckles. Other students shared stories of him getting jumped the night before, jumped into the “32nd Street Posse” and he was official. I witnessed him get into other fights; he went into “juvie” and someone eventually shot and killed him. I hold onto his memory because he was a beautiful Black boy.
IT HURTS ME TO THE CORE whenever I have to read, hear about, or witness fighting between Black folks. I become retriggered over and over again and feel rage, anger. I get mad at God; I get angry at the world because I believe it is unfair.
It is never fair to be in a mode of survival. It is not fair for Black children to witness violence against Black bodies, whether that is from law enforcement or those they see living in their neighborhoods. It is never fair that young people don’t get to grow up and do not get to embrace many decades of just living. It is not fair for our Black girls, our Black boys, to have their lives end abruptly. Even in writing this post, I am shedding tears because Black bodies deserve to live as long as forever, and all of our children deserve not to live life in fear or exist in a constant state of just surviving.
