In an effort to further the awareness of and involvement in the #BlackPoetsSpeakOutCampaign, all of our posts this week will be of poets championing other poets who have posted videos in support of the movement. To read a brief introduction from Mahogany Browne, one of the campaign’s co-creators, click here. To see the tumblr page with all of the video contributions, click here.
There isn’t enough imagination in the day for me to fathom the feeling of losing a child. The fruit of your womb six feet beneath the ground, rotting instead of flourishing, decaying instead of maturing, ceasing instead of moving…their breath forever absent from this Earth. I cannot imagine it, but when I attempt to wrap my head around the idea it usually ends with anger and frustration. I’m usually overwhelmed by fear and sadness. The questions are never ending and all of the answers leave me with an insatiable thirst for more.
More than “I’m sorry” or “Its not about race” or “all lives matter” or “get over it”…more than stop black on black crime first. More than a skim for a solution.
Everyday my daughters wake up to a world where the odds are stacked against them, they breathe the air of a world who has yet to mend historical wounds. I always wonder what can I do to give them ammunition. What truths do I hold on to, which ones do I share to ensure they’re not blindly existing?
The war against injustice is real. The anger behind the fight is real. And for some reason we are being hushed, fettered to fear; we are given scraps of excuses and expected to be “ok”. Even in our protest we are judged and chastised. Being made to feel ashamed of our behavior when the offenders carry no remorse.
As a mother, I thought there would be solace in silence…you know, dodging the questions, being evasive when the subject arises at play group, monitoring the likes of related articles and statuses in Facebook and keeping the channel on Disney Jr. It was exhausting and artificial. I have learned to be composed amongst mixed company, but the lioness reverts to her primal instincts when the blood of her cubs is being aimlessly shed. The hair on our necks rise in preparation for the fight. We unfold our bended knees, straighten our cowering spines, and the mourning is over…we band in solidarity; the frontline to the barrage of bullets against brown people.
The collective cries mothers will be the sound that ripples beneath the ocean and splits the Earth in two. Are they ready for the backlash?
Entry inspired by “B. Sharise Moore reads “The Standard Script Given to the Grieving Mother Whose Child Has Been Murdered by Police” ”