Why I’m Checking Out of Black Lives Matter
Any other Tired Black Women are welcome to follow me out the door.
Dear Reader,
On a scale from one to ten I would rate my emotional intelligence at a zero. Really. I’m absolutely terrible at reading rooms, reading faces, reading body language, everything that you would need to navigate a social situation. It’s actually very sad and very embarrassing. But although I’m bad at reading rooms, the room that I cannot read for the life of me is my own.
When I really try to be socially competent I find that other people’s rooms have colors, shapes, and dimensions. Some are 2D while others are 3D. Some have long expansive corridors while others have small nooks and crannies. Some are defined by bold reds and yellows and others are defined by mellow pastels like lavender or baby blue. When I try to be socially competent I find that other people’s rooms have character and personality. But when I look at my room, I see a white box that sometimes shifts to black. This shift between the two correlates with a shift in emotional state of mind. One minute I have nothing to say then the next minute there are not enough words to fit into one rant. One minute I’m numb then the next minute I’m flooded. But instead of journaling or doing some emotionally explorative work, my days are spent working to preserve my mental sanity as if the same as my emotional one. I tell myself that I’m fine and that I just have a different way of processing my emotions than everyone else does.
In our modern day society we have entrenched ourselves in toxic positivity. We’ve decided that it’s not ok to experience sadness, or loneliness, or anger and are told instead to “look at the bright side” and to remain “unbothered.”
But this wasn’t emphasized until George Floyd was murdered in Minneapolis, the same city I was born and raised in. When the world said it was outraged. I said I was fine. I told myself that I wasn’t afraid, upset, or sad but at the same time I won’t watch the video of Floyd’s last moments on Earth because “I was tired of watching black people die on camera.” At this point, I said, I didn’t need to watch a black person die to understand how corrupt the system was. I acknowledged that what happened to him was wrong and terrible but for the most part I moved on with my life as though nothing had happened. As I did that I expected the world to do the same. It didn’t. Instead it exploded. All of a sudden Black Lives Matter went from being anti police to being an omnipresent force of solidarity. I was surprised, I was shocked and I was skeptical, but I remained detached, unmoved.
Science says that the brain shuts down when exposed to stressful scenarios. In an emotionally charged situation that’s what I tend to do. I shut down and retreat within myself until I’m triggered again. There’s just too many emotions to process, I guess. But the thing about emotions is that they don’t go away just because you want them to. They stay and resurface when they get the chance. I realized that when I downloaded the Starz app in order to continue binge watching my new favorite show, Outlander, a romance series I enjoy despite the fact that romance is a genre that I don’t really indulge in.
For a while, I was confused by this. How could I, someone who championed social justice, draw away from a storyline that aimed to push for the eradication of slavery centuries before it was supposed to end? Then it dawned on me.
Starting in season three, the main character Claire and her star crossed lover Jamie sail to Jamaica in order to rescue their nephew who was kidnapped by sailors. Due to information they were given, Jamie and Claire make the scary assumption their nephew was sold into slavery and attend a slave auction in order to find him. The scenes during this part were gratuitous. Black people locked in cages stared with dead eyes at the main character who looked back in horror and discomfort. I looked back at these scenes with sad resignation of the life black people were subjugated to. But when the story moved to the next season, I assumed the topic of slavery wouldn’t be discussed again. I was wrong.
When Jamie and Claire leave Jamaica with their nephew in tow, they are caught up in a hurricane which lands them on the shores of Georgia in America. Robbed of their money and possessions they make their way to River Run into the arms of Jamie’s conveniently rich aunt who runs, you guessed it, a plantation. Although she claims to treat her slaves with benevolence we are granted views of the hundreds of slaves working side by side picking cotton and caring for the house.
But I’m quickly reminded that not all hope is lost. I the viewer am supposed to take comfort in the fact that Jamie and Claire have decided to change history and help end slavery. I’m supposed applaud the writers and directors for depicted slavery in an honest-ish way. But I don’t. Maybe it’s because I know that their efforts are supposed to do more to portray them as noble white people than it is to discuss slavery in a way that moves the conversation forward to push for present day change. Maybe it’s because I know that slavery is supposed to serve as another backdrop for their love story. But what I do know for certain was that the more slavery was shown in Outlander the less I wanted to watch it.
For a while, I was confused by this. How could I, someone who championed social justice, draw away from a storyline that aimed to push for the eradication of slavery centuries before it was supposed to end? Then it dawned on me.
I was triggered.
In our modern day society we have entrenched ourselves in toxic positivity. We’ve decided that it’s not ok to experience sadness, or loneliness, or anger and are told instead to “look at the bright side” and to remain “unbothered.” In our attempts to pretend that the grass is greener than it actually is, we have learned to look down on and avoid negative emotions and, in regards to this situation, pain. In all honesty it’s not hard to understand why. Pain is unpleasant, uncomfortable, and hurtful. But it’s also an incredibly important means of the survival and maintenance of the human body. Pain tells us that something is wrong and motivates us to change our environment or behavior before more damage can be inflicted. Pain guides us in our mission to seek the comfort, safety, and protection we so desperately crave but for some reason we’re taught to see as an obstacle. As an enemy.
Despite what the world and other black women would like us to believe, we’re not bulletproof. If you cut us we’ll bleed, if you tickle us we’ll laugh, and if you hurt us we’ll cry.
George Floyd was not the first black person who had died at the hands of an authority figure. I first heard of Trayvon Martin’s death at twelve years old. So for the past six years, I had been routinely exposed to black death and black trauma at the hands of the state on top of dealing with the racism in my own community. This exposure had left me wounded and tired but my inability to read my room and see the tears in the wall allowed me to continue behaviors that inflicted more trauma on my psyche. But at some point my subconscious decided that enough was enough. So I stopped watching and I deleted the app.
I think that as black women we’re expected to see ourselves as invincible. But when you see yourself as invincible you treat yourself like it too. Maybe that’s why I didn’t notice the signs earlier or why I did notice it but ignored it. Because I had been so heavily indoctrinated by the Strong Black Woman trope I subconsciously thought my blackness and my womanhood would be enough to protect me. Obviously it wasn’t.
I don’t have all the answers about how to free ourselves from SBW indoctrination, but I do understand that during this time of racial unrest, black women will be called to the front lines like we usually are. We will be called to fight for and protect a black community that has consistently shown that black women’s lives aren’t as valuable as the lives of black men. We will be told to think about our sons, and fathers, and brothers (but not our daughters, mothers, and sisters). We will be called to close ranks. But if you’re a black woman reading this, before you make up a protest sign and put on your mask, I urge you to check in with yourself.
Despite what the world and other black women would like us to believe, we’re not bulletproof. If you cut us we’ll bleed, if you tickle us we’ll laugh, and if you hurt us we’ll cry. Watching people who look like you be killed constantly is exhausting. Being expected to carry the burdens of an entire community is exhausting. But just in case you need permission, I’m here to say that it’s ok to admit that you’re tired and it’s ok to check out for a while. Go to therapy, read a funny book, cry because you’re sad or happy or because you just need to let it out. You can’t save the world when drowning with the weight of it.
Every Thursday, my sister attends a class where students and a staff member come together to discuss social justice. The class is lead by an amazing and intelligent black woman who has spent years of her life dedicated to social activism and one thing she always says that makes me cringe is that even though we’re tired, we {the activists of the world} can’t afford to stop doing the work.
I just have to disagree with that.
I’ve been researching and building my knowledge regarding social justice since I was 14. Four years later I can say with absolute confidence that exposing yourself to the trauma’s and injustices of the world in the name of doing the work does a lot to f**k you up. At eighteen, I’m tired of race and I’m tired of fighting. Maybe it’s because I haven’t developed healthy habits necessary to re balance myself and heal my psyche, but for whatever reason I’ve subconsciously checked out in some aspects of the word.
So no, I’m not protesting, I’m not watching Outlander, I’m not emotionally engaged, and I’m not watching any more slave movies (I’m looking at you Antebellum). I’m checking out for the day. Indefinitely.
- Sincerely, a Tired Black Girl.
