I have immersed myself into this trial, and for the fight for justice for Trayvon Martin since February 26, 2012. I have been on social media, mostly Twitter, rallying for justice. Aligning with my African American followers in, what my foolish white privilege mistakenly identified as united in one accord. Standing tweet-to-tweet with my black brothers and sisters fighting the same fight, feeling the same feelings, pronouncing the same grievances of injustice. While it is from the deepest part of my heart I cry with the mothers of black sons who went back for an extra kiss and hug as they tucked their babies in bed tonight, and join in hang wringing nervousness of the mothers of black teen sons who were out on a Saturday night just trying to be kids, I realized, I cry for humanity but I can't cry in the same respect. I can, and do, desire with all of my heart to be able to emphasize, but I never will know the fears that live in the heart of the mother of a black son.
My skin color is a barrier that affords me special privileges. It affords me the ability to not know what it's like to be profiled by people in authority. But it also affords me the inability to fully grasp the actions and notions that sicken me to my very core. It prohibits me from fully realizing the fear that goes through the hearts and minds of parents of black children every day.
I had such high hopes. It's 2013. We elected a black man as President not once but twice. But I'm also someone who spends a lot of time watching the news and there are a lot of white people of power and greater privilege than I who want their country back and apparently back to at least the Jim Crow south era if not the Civil War. I abhor this with every fiber of my being; however, my skin color sets me apart as having to prove myself. I have to prove I'm not one of "those" white people. At times it has been frustrating because I care so deeply about the civil rights and safety of my black friends, their children and grandchildren and all the Trayvon and Trayvona's of the country. Tonight I realized something: so what.
Who am I to be so frustrated that I have to prove that I'm not a "creepy ass cracker" when I have the luxury of privilege Trayvon's family did not have? Regardless of how hard I try or how much I desire, I will never know what it is like to be Sybrina Fulton and Tracy Martin.
We have a lot of work to do regarding race relations in this country. The first step for those of us who do not understand the deeply ingrained fear, distrust, and anger that African Americans have, is to admit we will never understand. In order to unite this country and for there to be equality for everyone, those of us who do not know the sting of inequality aren't impotent of ability to help but we first have to admit we will never truly know how it feels. My passion for equality comes from being raised to love as Christ loves us. It comes from being a human being. It comes from being a Christian. But no matter how hard we try, we, as whites, can never ever understand how this verdict felt tonight to the African American community.
I cried when the verdict was read. I had several phone calls I couldn't even answer. I was angry and numb but regardless of how emotional I got, as I scrolled through my Twitter TL I began to understand what I had been blind to before: I will never know the pain.
The tweets I read that turned my stomach and broke my heart gave me the greatest view of my privilege I've ever had. I want to do something. Most of my white friends want to do something too and I've come to the conclusion that in order to be productive we need to defer to those who know, who walk with the injustices of racism daily. Show up, show your concern. Show your love. Show your passion. But also show your place. There's room for all of us at the well but we have to realize that, in this fight, our place is where we are instructed it is and rightly so.
If you are white and you desire to help in the fight for civil rights and equality use your voice. But don't get so ingrained in the desire to fight that you overstep your boundaries. We cannot speak to the ills of which we have been protected from experiencing. We can't have a "been there, experienced that" conversation but we can show up and say, "I'm here because I love you and I desire to help. How can I be of service?" And then, help as you are able.
Let there never be another Travyon. Let this be our mission.
The first place ALL of us can start is getting involved in the political process on the local level as well as nationally. WV has a SYG law on the books. Become involved in campaigning for people who seek to abolish this law. Become proactive in getting your voice heard to demand this law be abolished. We have to start somewhere to protect all of our children.
What are YOU going to do?
After the verdict came out, David and I sat up together and talked about how devastating it was. Everything else aside, this meant to us that no matter what we did, no matter what kind of men we raised our sons to be, we cannot keep them safe. We can give them the best of everything, a solid family, more love and attention and affection than anyone could imagine. We can do everything "right".
ReplyDeleteBut someone could still attack them because of the color of their skin.
Suddenly it doesn't feel like we've made much progress at all since the race riots and the murder of Dr King.