My mother was born in the 1950s. She grew up during the ’60s and ’70s. My mother integrated her elementary school and was in Los Angeles during the Watts riots.
I’ve heard my fair share of stories from her about being Black in America, the Civil Rights Movement and the turmoil of the period. But as someone who was born in the ’90s, grew up in the 2000s and attended racially diverse schools, the stories seemed like just that—stories.
I was able to acknowledge the history of African-Americans and admit that life was tough for Blacks in the ’60s—but we had done what was necessary to become full, free members of American society, right?
In school, we studied colonization but glossed over slavery. We watched a documentary on the French Revolution but only read a few lines about the Civil Rights Movement. We drew maps of Europe before, during and after World War II but skipped the unit on Reconstruction and the Jim Crow south.
My mother, and the Internet, were there to fill in the blanks. Google told me that slavery in America ended over 150 years ago. My mother told me that I was only seven generations out of slavery.
I still had a few questions, but college promised to answer them. And answer them it did. University-level history taught me about the various Civil Rights Acts of the 1960s. Law and ethics required me to read the text of the United States Constitution in its entirety. Women’s studies taught me about the intersection of race, gender and class in American society. But instead of feeling enlightened, I felt pissed off.
Academia had confirmed what I had known all along—America was not made for us. When the founding fathers wrote “all men are created equal…endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness,” they didn’t mean Black people. How could they? At that time, Black men were only considered three-fifths of a person for the purpose of southern states’ congressional representation.
Still, we had gained our freedom. We went from fields and plantations to universities and the White House. Black resilience is something to marvel, isn’t it?
One morning in March of 2012, I woke up to news of the death of an unarmed Black teenager in Florida. His name was Trayvon Martin. I looked to my mother for answers—she didn’t have any. I sighed, shook my head and got dressed for school.
On July 18, 2014, I saw a video of a Black man being placed in a chokehold by a New York police officer. His name was Eric Garner. I shook my head, showed my mother and turned off my phone.
On August 10, 2014, I heard news of an unarmed Black teenager who had been fatally shot by a Ferguson, Missouri police officer. His name was Michael Brown. I read tweets and watched news coverage. My friend protested. I did not.
In November of that same year, I watched blurry dash cam video of Ohio police shooting a 12-year-old Black boy. His name was Tamir Rice. I threw my hands up and groaned in frustration.
In April of 2015, I listened to reports about the death of a young Black man in Baltimore. His name was Freddie Gray. I said, “This is a damn shame.”
In July of that same year, I watched video of an unarmed Black woman being forced to the ground by a Texas state trooper. I learned that she had died while in police custody. Her name was Sandra Bland. I said, “I don’t believe that she hung herself.” I tried to remember to use my blinker.
On July 5, 2016, I saw a video of a Black man being held down by two Louisiana police officers. I saw one officer reach for his gun. I closed my eyes, but I heard the shots. His name was Alton Sterling.
The next day, I listened to video of a Black man who had been shot by a Minnesota police officer while reaching for his license during a traffic stop. I refused to watch it. His name was Philando Castile.
The day after that, I cried.
I am tired. I’m tired of waking up to dash cam, cellphone and surveillance videos. I’m tired of waking up to hashtags. I’m tired of waking up to the news of another Black person’s death.
I am anxious. I’m anxious because it is uncertain whether or not these officers will be charged for what certainly looks like murder.
And I am angry. I’m angry because social media users lack compassion for these people and the way that they died. I’m angry because someone turned a photo of a man lying dead in the street into a meme. I’m angry because, even in the midst of one of the United States’ deadliest years on record, there are people who cannot exercise basic human decency.
But how can we expect human decency from a country that once viewed us as a fraction of a human being?
And we are human. We work. We vote. We love. We laugh. We educate. We invent. We innovate.
We also hurt. We cry. We bleed. We die—some of us, too soon.
So, yes, Black lives do matter. They just don’t matter in America.
My mother and I pray before either of us leaves home because we don’t know what the other may encounter outside.
The day after Castile’s death, I saw a police officer writing a ticket and, for a moment, worried about the safety of the driver. I thought back to the two times that I have been pulled over. I followed my mother’s instructions—turned off the radio, kept my hands on the steering wheel, informed the officer that I was going to reach into the glove box to retrieve my insurance papers. I was lucky enough to be let go with only warnings. I am grateful that those encounters didn’t turn me into a hashtag.
Castile did those same things. He became a number one trending topic.
I sat down with my mom to try and talk through my feelings several times this week. Instead, I ended up helping make sense of hers. She couldn’t believe that a police officer would be so careless as to fire a weapon into a car with a woman and child. I told her that I wasn’t surprised.
The relationship between African-Americans and the police is a strained one. Police officers are trained to de-escalate situations—yet far too often, situations are escalated by police presence. Instead of bringing about peace, they incite fear. Instead of promoting calm, they rouse anger.
In the same week that the U.S. celebrated independence, it also mourned the deaths of two Black men and five police officers. It’s hard to say what should be done next. And I’m not going to pretend that I have the answers. But it is my sincere hope that we continue to speak up, speak out and demand equality—not just in justice, but in every aspect of American life.