A Letter From Your Token Black Friend
Hey!
Thanks for reaching out. No. I am not okay. Wouldn’t it be weird if I said I was? Lol.
I hear you, friend, as you say “your heart breaks” for me. Just like it did the last time, right? And the time before that? In perpetuity. I’m not saying it’s not important how you feel. But how you feel hasn’t done me much good. Hm, maybe that sounds harsh…
You ask me “how are we still here?” Wow. Well. I gotta be honest. It feels like you haven’t been listening to me. As I pushed for changes in our hiring practices. As I asked for healthcare reform. As I pointed out over-policing in my communities and laws that lock us up for cheap labor. I pointed out wealth inequality, the school-to-prison pipeline, stop-and-frisk, racial profiling, job disparity, food deserts… sorry. There I go again, lol!
It was a good day when I got “well, change is slow, be patient”, from you. Bad days? “Are you sure? Where are you getting your statistics from?” Or maybe a thinly-veiled threat with your hand on my shoulder of “you don’t want to rock the boat my man”.
Not to mention I should be asking you that question: “How are we still here?”
I’d like to tell you that I’m engaging your feelings right now. I mean, I do hear you. You’re “torn up” by “one more black body”. (I’d appreciate if you’d say his name with me real quick: George Floyd.) I’m torn up too! We’re on the same side! How cool is it you get to take a short vacation into the black experience, say a few heroic things about white supremacy and racism and how we could all do “a little more” then wait as everything goes back to normal for you. It was nice of you to visit if only in between the hashtags and celebrity outcry. You know, this is where I live. I’m not accruing vacation time 😉 Lol.
Listen. I know you mean well, but you reaching out like this feels like you just want a personal sample of my black grief. Just to see what it tastes like. Black grief to salve your white guilt. I’m not playing that game today, I have no more grief. That hard resonant thing your shovel just hit? That’s rage, pure and simple. I have no more space left to give you, your feelings, your apologies, your bids for my patience.
Our wealth has been built upon my ancestors “black bodies.” Our blood made the soil fertile and skyscrapers and industry grew from our bones. The wheat in the bread you eat is ground by my caged brothers and sisters. We’re tired of our black life being looted; told we should be grateful to be under the knee of the power and privilege you’ve hoarded.
I’m going to ask you one last time: “How are we still here?” Can you hear the difference?
Look out over the night as it returns to you the sirens of our urgency. Do you see it? Reflected in the orange glow off the clouds and smoke, if you listen close you’ll have your answer:
“Because you brought us here.”
Now do something about it.
Always,
Your Token Black Friend.
