A Vile Self-Denial
“It’s exhausting being black in America.” –Charles Barkley, various others
I watched his dark shoulders slumped —
no, his dark everything slumped
as brassened-harbingers of lethal force
found their targeted marks.
I watched as his kids watched
his body buckle at point-blank
as the world watched and
is rewatching his body buckle.
I watched a television personality
and former professional sports-baller’s
massive shoulders
slumped and buckled
as he eloquently stammered
while choking back tears
trying to find the words to
contextualize our collective horror
at what we all watched and rewatched.
It seems the professional athletes of color
along with their white professional athlete allies
are too depressed and outraged to play today;
a collective act of defiance;
a collective act of conscience.
I felt my own brown shoulders
slump and buckle
and I heard the foreign sound
of my own wailing as the images
replayed in my mind
along with a single thought;
after all this time of conforming,
contorting, bending, snapping-to,
they still don’t see us as people.
My everything slumps in defeat.
An upbeat, jazzy chirping
from my work computer alerts me
to the fact that a client’s printer
is no longer printing important documents
and she’s dead-in-the-water.
She’s not really though,
and none of her pressing matters
actually matter in the context of
life-or-death, or lethal force,
but no matter.
My back stiffens, raising my head, and
I snap-to, wiping my tears,
finding the smile in my voice,
knowing I cannot afford
an act of defiance;
an act of conscience.
I resolve her issue with
a song in my heart.
The song is a lie;
a vile self-denial;
I disgust myself.
I end the call and feel my shoulders —
no, my everything slumped.
