Blackness & George Floyd in a Black Immigrant Family: No Language to Grieve

It has now been two full weeks since George Floyd was brutally murdered by police just miles from me.

A few days ago I heard a character on TV declare quite matter-of-factly that “mothers always know!” It struck me that I was supposed to nod my head and agree that, indeed, mother always knows, but I was left entirely uneasy that I didn’t. For the next day, I was plagued with confusion as to why and just how long I felt that way.

The next day, my mom came knocking on my door huffing and puffing about some chore I forgot to do when I asked her a question I hadn’t realized I’d been working up the courage to ask for over a week. I asked her why in two whole weeks she didn’t even ask me once about how I was feeling about everything that was going on, why she didn’t sense the deep unrest and pain in my soul.

My mom, now in her forties, emigrated to the US in her late teens during the mid-nineties to escape the Somali Civil War. She has long since lived much more of her life here than she has there, but she is still a Somali mother through and through.

When I asked her that question and she read the pain on my face and in my voice, I saw her anger slip away about the chore I can’t even remember as she pulled me into the room and sat me down. My mom…