uprising

last night a white woman accused me of being hostile after i shared that i was wholly disinterested in her life. this, following a post on fb in which a friend of mine voiced her disbelief in non violent social movements. the woman asked when they’d ever been effective, my response was  “when have they not?”. she proceeded to throw out research with corresponding numbers and happened to mention that she has a B.A. in Resistance. it was at this point, i shared that i was unconcerned with her education or research; and very plainly identified that we were having two different conversations. i shared that the answer ultimately depends on how ‘success’ and ‘winning’ are defined; to which she responded with more academic drivel and innocently explained her intent to share ideas and facts. i excused myself from the conversation, again noting that we were in two different spaces and having very different conversations. her ideas had nothing to do with my facts; which include me having to coach my son on how to behave, in hopes that he will escape racial profiling. she responded again, oblivious to her offense and ignorance, but this time i let it go. she didn’t get it, and thus supported my belief that an educated mind is very easily a foolish mind.

we pray for peace because praying for anythng more would be socially unacceptable. anger, aggression, and hostility make us uncomfortable. rage is scary. black rage is punishable. our demands for justice often feel like nothing more than a wish list akin to what kids prepare for santa. we are begging a person/structure in whom we may or not believe to deliver something very specific; and are then disappointed when said wishmaker delivers something outside of what we asked; but its a gift nonetheless.

peace is something you experience on the inside and share with others. i pray for peace for the mothers who have lost their brown faced children. and i hope for peace for myself and the other women trying to raise brown faced, male bodied children in this world. i feel a fear and angst for my son, that i’ve never experienced in any other part of my life. its a vulnerability that writhes in my soul and commands my attention daily. there is no manual for how to build up your black son, while simutaneously explaining to him that despite his best presentation, he will always have something to prove. its contradictory to teach my children the  belief that people are good at their core; yet warn them that the color or their skin will make them stand out in ways for which they never asked.

when my son was around 6 years old, he asked “what did black people ever do that was so bad, to make people hate us…?” i didn’t have an answer then, and i still don’t today. but it has to be something, right?

protests and demonstrations do serve a purpose. inwardly, they support a romantic notion of the revolution and help us feel connected; they provide a sense of action. outwardly a protest creates visibility. its an open space for one to participate in the shared outcry for justice. its the place to prove that we have numbers on our side.

i don’t begrudge the protests in ferguson last night. there is a space in us all that defies sensibility and logic. there is a place beyond our rage, where there are no words. its the space of the gutteral moan that is often inaudible to the human ear. here, we are driven to act. we are forced to expel our energy in a way that requires a special brand of force before relief will be realized. it is in this space that our aggression leads to success, because we have finally been able to communicate from the depths of our pain.

maybe this isn’t a time for peace. perhaps we need an uprising.

much time and too many resources are spent on theories and discourse; social media and petitions. but what are we doing? in our oppressed privilege, we do a lot of talking and very little doing; in the name of peace and relationship building.  all the while, our  community narratives are being shaped by  elite athletes, celebrities, assaultive black men, and murdered children. my son…ferguson’s son…cleveland’s son; they are more than a theory, a number, or a hot topic on CNN or MSNBC. they are our sons with lives that matter, and it is our charge to protect them and ensure that their lives were not and will not be lived in vain.  my hope is that today is more than a moment. let this be a movement moment where real change is birthed.

riots are the product of our pain, but they should not be the story. sometimes we need to do the thing that is less acceptable; the thing that will make us uncomfortable. we have to decide for ourselves the face of our resistance.

 

“there is a time for every, and a season for every activity under the heavens; a time to be born and a time to die; a time to plan and a time to uproot; a time to kill and a time to heal; a time to tear down and a time to build; a time to weep and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance;…a time to tear and a time to mend; a time to be silent and a time to speake; a time to love and a time to hate; a time for war and a time for peace…”

ecclesiastes 3:1-4; 7-8