Black Lives Matter
“Another black family mourning
What’s this country got to say?
They killed another human being
And nobody had to pay
Now what’s that say?
Now what’s that say?
Either you racist or you’re fighting for a change
Either you racist, or you’re fighting for a change.”
Those words reverberated across the rows of masked people. Thousands gathered. Our purpose: to bear witness and to amplify the calls for justice. We spent two hours with those who had their family members ripped from this mortal world by police brutality. We held space for their suffering. We chanted, we sang, we listened.
And each of the family members knew each other and were bonded by reprehensible acts of violence. What’s worse, none of the actions taken during or after the murder of their children considered them at all.
It reminds me of the stories of 1967 when folks rose up to put an end to these disparities. At least that’s what the history books taught me. That we achieved racial justice. Decades before I was born, before even my mother walked this earth. And yet, the cries, the chants, the utter fortitude of those who spoke up still ring true today.
As family after family stepped up to honor their lost children, their stolen children. We listened. With the heat radiating from the sidewalk. Standing on tired feet. We are tired. Today marks the 9thday of protests. Black people are exhausted. These are their cries older than our fathers or our father’s fathers. These are the deep ancestral cries heard across the centuries.
There can be no denying it. There is no more room for this cancer inside the body of our nation. It metastasized into a chimera of armed police who treat black people like second class citizens. Who have been over-weaponized and overstaffed. Officers who are seemingly above the law. Those who use excessive force without the threat of repercussion.
Like a cancer, racism fills every organ of this system, we have become a very sick society. And our doctors are gaslighting us. Our people in power are denying the cause and minimizing the symptoms.
And today we stood up to say that cancer has to go. Like a tumor, the tissue cannot be salvaged. We must cut it out, that is the only viable treatment option. We must, or our nation will continue to deteriorate. We, the people, will not stand for it anymore.
So today, I watched. I felt their pain. 120 seconds. That was the longest encounter that led to death. 2 minutes. Although some stories failed to mention the facts of their cases.
Because some could only cry. Some could barely mention the name of the lost as they writhed in grief. Others were so focused on objective details like streets and corners--perhaps the result of years of retelling and testifying and pleading with the lawyers and justices and cops and commissioners and mayors and whoever else they had to recount their story. Or hear about the torturous details of the case.
And to see the NYPD blatantly lie about so much on the same day. They don’t want the accountability. They are terrified of the responsibility. Of public knowledge. Of light being shed on their past wrongdoing.
And the police are against laws like making it necessary to fill out paperwork every time they draw a gun on a person. 2 minutes. Not one of the victims was doing anything other than existing in a white world. 2 MINUTES. A life ended. I believe a human life is worth a little paperwork.
Then with our voices hoarse and our spirits high, we marched up Broadway. Chanting and shouting and dancing and standing in solidarity. Thousands of feet. Loaded up with masks and sanitizer. Snacks and water. Goggles for tear gas and portable first aid kits were given out by strangers on the street.
And you can feel it. Buzzing inside the cheers and laughter. The tears and screams. Change is coming.
Change is coming. And if you don’t fight for it, then you are racist.
If you’ve already joined this fight, don’t give up. Don’t let up. Don’t stop.
Black Lives Matter.
Demand change. We must do better.
Black lives matter.