On Tamir's 21st Birthday

Image description: a picture of a 12-year-old Tamir Rice. He is smiling at the camera while throwing up a peace sign. The sun from a nearby window gives his soft brown skin a glow.

TW: discussion around police-involved shootings, murder, anti-Blackness, and racism.

Tamir Rice should be 21 years old today.

Tamir should be celebrating with friends and family, with a long weekend to do so.

But Tamir is not here today.

Tamir is not here today because, at the age of 12, he was murdered by a police officer who had been deemed emotionally unstable and unfit for duty by Independence, Ohio’s police department but lied about this to get a job with the Cleveland Police Department.

Tamir is not here today because he was murdered by a Cleveland police officer who never received a background check when he applied for the Cleveland Police Force.

Tamir’s family received no justice for his murder because a jury believed the officer who murdered Tamir was justified in his actions. After all, Tamir had an airsoft pistol that looked real, and there was no way the officer could know the difference.

Meanwhile, white mass shooters on murder sprees get lengthy negotiations, gentle trips to the police station and Burger King, and so much benefit of the doubt and so many excuses for their actions that it’s blatantly apparent whose lives don't matter.

Tamir should be celebrating the benchmark of adulthood.

But Tamir isn't with us today.

[Image description: a picture of a 12-year-old Tamir Rice. He is smiling at the camera while throwing up a peace sign. The sun from a nearby window gives his soft brown skin a glow.]

On Trayvon, Sandra, and Existing While Black

[Image description: pictures of Sandra Bland and Trayvon Martin. Both are smiling at the camera as their photographs are taken, which means they are smiling at the viewer.]

TW: police violence, murder, anti-Blackness.

This past Sunday, Trayvon Martin should've been celebrating his 28th birthday surrounded by friends and family.

Sandra Bland should be celebrating her 36th birthday today, surrounded by friends and family.

But they're not. They're gone because of whiteness, of white people, of a white society that has no issue with seeing Black people as a persistent danger for no reason outside of intolerance and hatred.

Blackness in the United States is simultaneously living in mourning and celebration. It's observing 28 scheduled days of Black achievement and pain in white spaces in front of white audiences looking to feel good about themselves while commodifying our existence as novelty and curiosity until we are deemed dangerous and expendable. Sometimes that expendability leads to reinforcing cycles of systemic and generational poverty.

Other times it comes in the form of trauma and death.

It is far too often the latter.

No matter what they tell you or what you've read, our deaths are never justifiable, especially considering how white domestic terrorists are handled in this country. Still, our harm and deaths are often unwarranted yet blamed on us as something we brought on ourselves. And yet we're expected to get up every day, put on a smile, and live with the fact that today could be the day we don't make it back home from a trip to the corner store or after getting pulled over for no damn reason. Somehow we face all of this and contribute to society and our communities in ways that help everyone, including white people, because that's who we are deep down inside. That's how we were raised, the descendants of enslaved people on unceded land. We were raised by people who, sadly enough, passed on the generational trauma they're carrying in their bodies and all of the "rules" that come with it. They didn't know they were; they were trying to protect the next generation. We've unconsciously embodied much of what was passed to us because we want what our parents, their parents, and their grandparent's parents wanted: to live without harm and without harming others.

To dream.

To live and love and achieve great things.

To not be murdered by white violence.

This is what it looks like to live while Black in the United States.

Trayvon should be 28.

Sandra should be 36.

But they aren't.

On Tyre Nichols and Black Accountability Under the Spectre of Generational and Societal Trauma

Image Description: A picture of Tyre Nichols. He is smiling at the camera while wearing a lavender dress shirt, dark blue dress vest, lavender and dark blue tie, and dark blue pleated slacks. His hands are in his pockets.

T.W.: Murder, anti-Blackness, police brutality.

The murder of Tyre Nichols at the hands of five Black police officers in Memphis, Tennessee, is the intersection of white supremacy, policing, and Black self-hatred. The men that murdered Tyre were operating in a state of believing their police affiliation made them invulnerable to accountability, their Blackness be damned. They were feeding off the power they thought their positionality gave them and wielded that power to harm their own. And because they willingly disregarded the fact that badge or no badge, they're still Black men in the United States, this will likely be one of the rare times when police officers are held responsible for police brutality. And real talk?

They should be held responsible.

And Black communities should want them to be held accountable for murdering a Black man. Why?

Because accountability can't be a pick-and-choose situation.

Over the years, I've found that discussions of accountability for Black men who harm other Black people in Black communities often fall into the space of explanations pushing for why Black folx should forgive or disregard the harm they've caused. This is often frustrating for me to watch and engage with because too many Black people want to push forgiveness when Black people pose a danger to Black people or be outright quiet about it.

Regardless of the generational trauma we carry in our Black bodies, we cannot give a pass to Black people harming others while operating in spheres of white supremacist ideology. And we must stop providing Black men a pass when they harm other Black people. We've got to push through the discomfort and have hard conversations about accountability while respecting that trauma and self-hatred might be at play but not as excuses for murdering and harming others.

P.S., especially for Black folx: Please do not watch the videos of Tyre being harmed when they're shared with the public tomorrow. Don't do harm to yourself with this "Black trauma porn." You don't need to watch footage of a Black man being harmed in his final hours. No one does.

Mailbox

So I go to my mailbox today to grab the mail. There’s a police car sitting in the business plaza parking lot across from my house. I need to walk to the mailbox a literal block away from my house to mail a check but I’m so scared to do so now, with the police presence in my neighborhood. I watch him as he sits in his car, doing nothing. He’s likely not cognizant of how intimidating he is right now. There’s a strong likelihood he wouldn’t care even if you informed him of it.

So I sit. And I wait. And my anxiety rises.

He’s been there a little over 30 minutes and I don’t understand why.

I open one of the packages I grabbed from my mailbox. It’s an action figure I’ve been wanting to add to my collection for some time now. These things usually bring me great joy. Today that joy is brief.

I want to cry. My eyes are welling up. I want to yell, scream, thrash something. And yet I sit here, scared for my life when all I want to do is drop a check in the mailbox.

I allow myself a minute to cry. It all comes flooding out: the generational trauma, the current trauma, all of it. I like to allow myself a good hearty cry every few months. Lately, it’s been every few weeks. I gather myself; I feel like I’ve got to be strong, even for myself. I view the crying as strength, the vulnerability as fuel. Black bodies need to grieve and mourn and express just as much as white bodies do, contrary to somewhat popular belief.

I inhale. I exhale. I look out my window. The police car is gone. It’s “safe” now?

“Safe.”

I guess I should go mail this check.

Wish me luck.