A group of demonstrators gather at dusk in Shelby Farms Park in response to the death of Tyre Nichols, who died after being beaten by Memphis police officers following a traffic stop, in Memphis, Tenn., Monday, Jan. 30, 2023. Tyre, who had a hobby in photography, frequented the park to photograph sunsets. (AP Photo/Gerald Herbert)
Published on February 1, 2023 at 4:54 pm
Mass shooting.
School shooting.
Unarmed black person killed by police.
Rinse and repeat.
Scene:
Black person driving.
Lights flash.
Slow down.
Pull over.
Officer approaches.
Disagreement. Scuffle. Argument.
Fight-or-flight response triggered.
Fists punch. Feet kick. Batons beat. Shocks deploy. Guns fire.
Victim blamed.
Footage released.
Thoughts and prayers.
Rest in powerful peace.
End scene.
I don’t want to write beautiful sentences eulogizing Black death, performing my pain through prose.
Tyre Deandre Nichols deserves better.
Black people deserve better.
I don’t want to argue for my humanity and the humanity of my kindred, my skindred, by highlighting the brutality with which we are treated, maimed, traumatized and murdered.
I don’t want to point out that the names associated with the hashtags that now date back at least a decade, and centuries of crimes against humanity recorded before the dawn of the internet, are the reason A.P. African American Studies is necessary.
I don’t want to explain how racism is a double-edged sword that can be wielded by anyone against anyone as an agent of white supremacy. The race of the officers in this particular case is both the reason for the depravity demonstrated by their own cameras against Tyre Deandre Nichols and the reason for the swift carriage of “justice” against them.
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I said I didn’t want to explain.
And I don’t.
But I did.
And I must.
I am compelled to bemoan the internal burdens we carry in our Black bodies that are taught not to defend our Black lives by a blue force that would kneel on our necks because we tried to pass fake cash.
I guess grace and mercy only belong to God to give.
I don’t want to explain why people matter more than property when law enforcement battens down the hatches and cosplays in riot gear to face off against the righteously emboldened, the aggrieved, indignant and unheard.
I don’t want to protest, plea or petition my government — at any level — for fewer guns, less ammo, more restraint, more reform, more funding for services outside of policing, when all our elected leaders will do is kneel in Kente cloth, probably made in China, and pass the buck to the next administration.
I don’t want to beg to be seen and treated as equal.
I don’t want to fear for my children.
But I do.
My son, especially.
I don’t want to be a mother screamed for in the middle of the night by a child under the dirty boot of authority.
I don’t want to call the Al Sharptons and Ben Crumps for recognition of the miscarriage of justice.
I don’t want to hear reporters, politicians, and pastors asking and answering about a legacy left at 25.
Whose legacy should begin and end at 25?
I don’t want to wrap myself in the rhetoric of struggle couched in church colloquialisms that tout toil and long-suffering on Earth for a life of joy and love on the other side.
I don’t want to entreat the ancestors to stand with me, walk with me, talk with me, commune with me and fight with me — coming as one but standing as 10,000 — when they too deserve rest.
We deserve rest.
Rest from the fights for our lives.
Rest from the attacks by police.
Rest from the killings by police.
Rest from the attacks and killings by vigilantes.
Rest from being blamed for the violence done against us.
Rest from the inequities that persist because we built a country for free and were locked out of government money grabs that remade the middle class.
Rest from the diversity hires that are first fires in the wave of remote mass layoffs.
Rest from the seeking of reconciliation, restoration and repair.
I’ve said it all before.
And I’m tired of saying it again and again and again and again and again and . . .
I’m tired.
This is history.
Living history.
American history.
Black history.
We haven’t learned.
That’s why we rinse and repeat.
