#BlackLivesMatter
Originally published on www.kesifelton.com
July 11, 2016
Can I be Honest?
This week has been very weird. Tragic, definitely angering, but also weird. With the recent killings of Philando Castile and Alton Sterling, it is very evident that America has come together and said, enough is actually enough (enough was also enough after Trayvon Martin, and Michael Brown, and Eric Garner, and Sandra Bland, and… I guess you get the point). At first, I didn’t want to write anything about this. Instead, my Twitter is full of retweets of others’ sentiments on these events. I’ve given myself time to think about what I could say about this. So I guess I’ll start from when I first heard about Alton Sterling...
The first thing that came to mind was the fact that news of Sterling’s death came the day after the Fourth. The night before I was enjoying fireworks and genuinely thinking “America is actually pretty okay,” and the next morning I was immediately sent back into the reality of what it means to be Black in America. The outrage ensued on social media, as it does every time a situation like this occurs. News outlets immediately go into plastering the victim’s criminal record all over their headlines, along with the “Well, he’d be alive if he didn’t _____” disputes. The next day, video surfaces of Diamond Reynolds sitting next to a dying Philando Castile. Repeat the above.
What struck me about both of these situations was that, after watching the videos of two men dying at the hands of individuals who swore to “protect and serve” them and their respective communities, the reality of it didn’t register to me. I did feel anger. I did feel fear. But it still didn’t seem real. None of these situations have. (Here’s where I get honest) I live in the suburbs. The police in my city are very present, but I could never imagine a situation like this happening. I think that’s where my problem lay, in my ability to empathize with those who lose loved ones because of police brutality. I genuinely could not see a person of color being killed by police in a predominately white town. And I found safety in that. I hate to say this, but I feel like even though I watch people who look like me die entirely too often, I would get scared, thinking of the victims’ loved ones, as well as my own family members and praying that would never happen, but I would subconsciously reassure myself by thinking “It probably won’t happen here, so you should be okay.”
But this time felt different. This time I genuinely felt drained by the amount of death on my TV and social media, as did millions of other people. I realized that thinking this way is not only naive but also dangerous and that I am no different from any other black person in this country in the eyes of an oppressive police officer. I didn’t want to leave my house. And when I did I felt scared driving past a squad car or hearing sirens walking out of Target. I was afraid to go to the airport or to be in Washington, D.C. to go to my freshman orientation. I read as much as I could about the situation and let other people voice their opinions while I tried to process mine.
During orientation, I put the issues at the back of my mind and found comfort in being around other people in my class that may be feeling similar emotions as me, both as incoming college freshmen and young Black kids in America. But then, again, I felt guilty at the fact that I had the privilege to go back to normal and prepare for the next chapter in my life after seeing two more Black men have theirs cut short.
Among the hundreds of tweets on the situation, I heard about a Black Lives Matter protest that would be taking place in D.C. outside of the Department of Justice building, and something in me told me to go. I had never been to a protest of any kind before, but I knew I needed to be there. About 30 minutes after orientation ended, I took an Uber down to Pennsylvania Avenue. Since I was alone in a city that I’m not yet familiar with, I got dropped off in front of the Newseum and decided to walk to the DOJ building and mostly observe the protest for a short period of time. There were a few police officers standing in front of the entrance to the building, which just so happened to be in between the protest and where I was standing. I eventually got over myself and walked past them to join the protest, which had just begun to gather a large crowd. We lit candles, sang, and some people in the group spoke. It was interesting to see the diversity of the crowd as well as the number of journalists and their cameramen trying to get to the front, some documenting on regular cameras and others on their smartphones. One of the cameramen next to me mentioned that it was his first day on the job, one sang along with us as he knelt on the floor to record, and another one even spoke about her fears being the mother of a black son. It was a very peaceful and, at first, almost lowkey protest, a sharp contrast to the one back home in Atlanta, which I experienced vicariously through my friends’ Snapchat stories. Both very necessary and memorable moments. I left the protest just before they marched to the White House, but from what I saw, it was dope.
Going to that protest made me sure of several things: Instead of living in fear, I need to be grateful for the simple fact that I am alive and have the ability to fight for those who aren’t any longer (I'm definitely no militant activist, but I now see the necessity of being a present and active participant in this movement). We definitely have strength in numbers, and we should use that strength to educate those in power of the detriment they have caused and continue to cause. Being angry without intention is useless. Most of the change has to start locally. We have to incite this change by actually coming together within our communities and making our voices heard to our local politicians. If you can, try to go to protests, gatherings, city hall meetings, etc. Get involved in the conversation outside of social media. Use your voice in some way, whether that be through social media, public speaking, art, writing, or music. Make it a point to take time for self-care, as all of this has been and will continue to be mentally, emotionally, and physically taxing. Try to understand other people’s opinions on the situation (Provide receipts if necessary, but don’t pay any attention to the internet trolls. It’s honestly distracting and a waste of your time and energy if they aren’t trying to have a legitimate and intelligent conversation about the issues at hand). We have to get creative regarding how we approach the solution to this seemingly malignant problem. It’s 2016. The cultural and political atmosphere that MLK and Malcolm X and their colleagues had to operate under may be somewhat similar to what we’re dealing with today, but we can’t expect to use the same tactics verbatim. We also can’t expect one person to have the sole solution or to save the day. If any of us truly want things to change, it will take patience and solidarity.
–kf
