*Trigger warning: Clicking on any of the links within the text below contains reference to current news stories that may be upsetting to some.
I’ve cried three times today.
The first after my walk, drinking lemon and ginger tea and sitting outside in the glorious sunshine. looking at my overgrown jasmine and marveling at the beauty of my garden. Trying to count my blessings and unable to see through the mental haze. I thought of my eldest daughter, K, and my heart broke. She’s not that far. In a leisurely forty minute walk I could be at her window, unable to enter her flat. I miss her. I miss touching her. I miss talking with her and seeing the expression on her gorgeous face. I miss butting in excitedly when she’s talking equally exuberantly. I miss having her do the same to me, gasping with delight at our shared revelations. I burst into tears and then I couldn’t stop. At least I thought I couldn’t stop. And that was before my thoughts had reached my grandson. So I scrolled through my contact favourites list. Who could I call? Past my sister, who would be at work in hospital. Past ‘Mummy’ who I’d already spoken to less than an hour ago and anyway she’d worry. Past K, despite the fact that I longed to hear her familiar, reassuring voice.
So I sat with my head in my hands and I cried. Slyly fascinated as my tears fell to the floor and evaporated in the sunshine. Remembering the last time I sobbed like I couldn’t stop and had performed the same desperate action, scrolling through my phone. That was over five years ago. Unknowingly heading full force into a long bout of depression. A different time and a different circumstances. But it scared me. I sent a message to my youngest daughter, M, upstairs in her room. Not wanting to disturb her creative flow whilst she painted, but feeling the need to outwardly acknowledge that I needed help out of this…this..what is it?
Trauma upon trauma.
Last week I saw the video of Amy Cooper weaponising her whiteness to call the police on black editor Christian Cooper (no relation) in New York. She was fully confident that she would be believed unquestionably by the incoming law enforcement officers and fully cognizant of the death threat that could pose to the black man in her presence.
The next morning, a mere few hours later, whilst scrolling through Facebook, I glimpsed a screenshot of a white police officer nonchalantly kneeling on a black mans neck. I’d heard the story of George Floyds final seconds, so I knew that I was watching a mans last breath. That was enough.
I’m not sure exactly who I’m writing this for. It’s my personal experience and thoughts on what’s happening right now. It’s hard to describe to someone who isn’t part of the African diaspora the feeling that seeing another black body murdered produces. Or of hearing that another person who looks like you has been shot down, knowing full well that the reason is purely based on their skin colour. Knowing that this is not only happening in America but that black people die unjustly in this country. But these murders, committed at the hands of those who are supposed to protect the public, go unpunished or barely noticed. Justice is rarely served in equal measures.
My youngest daughter, M, came downstairs and saw me hunched over in my seat. ‘Mum you ok?’. I felt her light, warm touch on my back. ‘Mum?’. Then, more softly "‘Are you crying?’. I was off again. They didn’t want to stop but, frankly, I began to welcome my tears. The temporary cleansing. I couldn’t explain properly and I didn’t need to. She understood. She’s a wise soul. And it’s not as if we hadn’t been discussing this topic, not only over the past few days but for what seems like a lifetime. I tried to put how I was feeling into words but all I could come up with was a jumbled collection of adjectives, delivered staccato-like. We talked and she eventually made me laugh. We reminisced of holidays with her sister and we made plans to revisit places together. Hashtag when this is all over. My tears dried.
I went to the supermarket, playing dodge the stranger in the vegetable aisle. I bought some flowers for our home. My first ever bunch of peonies. A little joy in my life. Necessary.
As I put my key in the front door, my mobile rang. I wasn’t in the mood for talking so my eyes glanced at the screen warily. But it was a good friend S so I answered. Of course the minute I heard her familiar ‘Hey girl, how are you?’ I started up again. That was the 2nd time. M had descended the stairs to retrieve the shopping so she disappeared with a nod whilst I retreated to talk. More crying. Some solace in my friends comfort. One black woman supporting another. The way its been throughout our 26 year friendship. The way it’s been for our ancestors and throughout generations. Again I didn’t need to explain. ‘I feel you. I’ve got you’.
Afterwards I returned to the kitchen and called K. When she didn’t pick up I started to prepare my flowers for display. Cutting the stalks and admiring the tight unopened buds. Like tiny pink fists. Minutes later she called back. That was the third time my tears flowed. The voices of people we love sound so precious, don’t they? How much we take for granted.
Why is this time different? Black bodies are killed on a regular basis. Did you know that? We knew. The only difference is that now they’re being filmed. Now everyone who has access to the media knows. And now there’s Outrage.
But is it enough? Will last week be the straw that broke the camels back. It won’t bring George Floyd or Ahmed Arbury or Breonna Taylor back or the many once vibrant black humans who have been killed. It won’t soothe their families or loved ones or the communities affected so tragically. The list is seemingly endless. It’s not an American problem. The UK have a long list too. The only obvious difference is that our police don’t carry guns.
Outwardly there’s a shift in the collective consciousness. More people who don’t talk about black lives are opening their mouths. Brand upon brand gradually declaring solidarity with #Blacklivesmatter campaign. It looks like some are genuinely from the heart. Some after being called out on social media. But there’s also a lot of silence. Deafeningly so. This morning I couldn’t understand why the world hadn’t come to a standstill. I’m trying to work through this rage. My journal is full and my heart is heavy.
Because this isn’t a fad. It simply can’t be a trend to jump on. This is going to take proactive intentional work. Reading and further reading, talking, speaking against a racist ‘banter’ and enduring some temporary awkwardness. Getting comfortable with being uncomfortable for a while at least.
Yes, of course, there will be joy and laughter and we will celebrate and hug each other and giggle again. Lots of that please. But honest conversations and a willingness to change has to be at the core of this. There’s no room for fragility in any colour. We can’t go on like this. Enough.
It’s tiring though. Grief is hard but collective grief is a kicker. Not being able to gather in person and comfort each other only compounds these feelings. Every day is a battle to keep going. This centuries old pandemic on top of this 2020 pandemic is taking its toll. So many of us are feeling it hard. Together yet alone. It’s a LOT.
If you’re not a black person reading this and you want to be part of the solution go to google and start there. Please refrain from asking your black friends what to do or what to say. Our brains are full, thanks. If you’re afraid of saying something for fear of getting it wrong, just be honest and say something anyway. Truthfully? Your silence speaks more than your words could ever do. ‘Nothing worth having is easy’. We know this, don’t we? Stand up. Do the work.
If you’re not interested in change or think that things are fine as they are then you have no business being here. I don’t have time for pleasantries. Not now. That ship has sailed.
I’m telling you this because I have to get it out. I don’t know what’s coming or what the future holds. I’m torn between wanting to punch things whilst screaming until I’m hoarse and wanting to be held close in familiar arms until it all goes away. But that’s not going to happen is it.
In the meantime let me live.
With love.
K x