Coming To Black
I vividly remember the day Philando Castile’s murder was painfully splashed on all media outlets. Two black girls in tears at a local Asian Fusion bar on a Wednesday night. I didn’t understand how or why we were so frustrated and disappointed. I just knew were angry. Even now it hurts to think of the realization we both came to that day:
They are killing people that look like us.
For 23 years of my life, I’ve worn my blackness as an accessory to my personality, something I could pick and choose to show. I was never a part of the “black” conversation or made any efforts to create awareness or influence change. I was simply complacently black.
So on July 6th, the second day in a row I woke up to graphic video of a harmless black man being shot and killed by people who take an oath to serve and protect us, something in me broke.
“Why does this keep happening? HOW does this keep happening? What if it were my father, little brother, uncle, mother, sister, cousin, grandma…” My mind began to unravel. “They are killing people that look like ME. They are killing people… that look LIKE ME.” Suddenly my cool accessory became something much, more permanent: my skin.
This was about the time I began to hyperventilate on my way to work. A feeling I knew all too well. I was having a panic attack. I walked into my office face red, eyes full of tears. I was so afraid. For the people I love. For the people I know. For the people that I don’t know. I was afraid for us. I thought about taking to Twitter and broadcasting my distaste for this egregious misuse of justice, but outside a few hash tagged tweets and a paragraph long Facebook status, I didn’t want to become an action-less activist shouting behind a twitter handle.
What could I even do? The thought has plagued me since that day. I thought going to the peaceful protests in my city would be efficient, but if I’m being honest, it would only fulfill my selfish desire to feel like I was apart of the movement. No, what I want to do is impact people’s lives and help change it for the better.
Initially I had self doubts about what I could do, but I began to think about what was most important to me and how I could turn my ambition into a contribution to society.
After a great deal of pondering, my goal is to become a mentor to young black girls and an advocate for successful black women, like myself. Also, as someone who has struggles with anxiety, I hope to join the fight to eliminate the stigma surrounding mental health in the black community. Eventually I’d like to help organize talks and programs to teach teens and young adults skills to combat anxiety and promote college success.
My mission is to help give young people the hope and tools to thrive in our community. I hope to discover what it truly means to be black in America and take pride in the beauty and success I find in myself and others.
Stay woke my friends.
