My son has recently had a gun held to his head and
robbed of a small amount of money this past Wednesday (August 17, 2016). I
was within a nano second of being another black mother torn asunder by the
death of her black son. This tragic figure that is so common in our media
that it is viewed and barely remarked upon. This is what happens to us,
we black people. We get killed in every day existence and some even see
this as "our lives." The violence erupting because of fatal
flaws and decisions.
I have always understood that my child, my black
son is at constant risk. My stomach tightens every time he leaves me.
At nineteen, he doesn't even have the patina of childhood to protect him,
although some studies show that black children are seen as adults as young as
10 years old. This recent occurrence changes my black and white fear to Technicolor. Not beaten and left concussed as he was a
year and four months ago, but dead this time.
A violent anniversary.
I am numb. I talked to police, I went to
work, and I cancelled the phone and made arrangements through the insurance
company to get him a new phone. I am numb, not strong. I cannot
fully deal with the idea of burying another child. The thought occurs
that I have often mistaken numbness for strength. The crash that awaited
came as a surprise. It devastated me in part because I was unaware of its
roots.
I am numb, but because of the practice I am aware
of it and not lost in the only positive fantasy this society allots to black
women...we are sooooooooo strong in the face of real nightmares. Many of
us carry outrageous burdens of awareness every damn day. Many of us are
numb.
The gift of the practice is awareness. I am
numb, but aware of it. I am numb, so I am walking and feeling my body as
it moves and awaiting the inevitable crash that will come with curiosity and
hope. The crash will not surprise me and the hurricane of fear, despair,
resentment, anger and tears will find me ready.
Namo Amida Butsu
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