I originally wrote these words as an editorial during my time as a news reporter for The Villages Daily Sun newspaper…that was 4 years ago. It’s sad and scary to me that these words are still just as true today as they were back then. While I have made some tweaks to update the timeline, my emotions are still just as raw as the day I wrote this…
I won’t lie; sometimes, I am scared for my life.
I’m almost 30 years old and for the past five years, every morning, I have had to text my mother to let her know that I am alive and doing well.
It’s the reality that I have to live every day; a reality that has become more commonplace for me and so many other African-Americans at this time in history. With multiple cases of police brutality and African-Americans being shot and killed, fear and anger sweep over the nation like never before.
And to think, it all started, literally, in my own backyard on Feb. 26, 2012. On that evening, Trayvon Martin, a young African-American male, was shot and killed by George Zimmerman, a neighborhood community watch, at The Retreat at Twin Lakes in Sanford.
Since that night, the Black Lives Matter Movement has grown to raise concern to a community that feels their voice is being taken away from them. Following Zimmerman’s verdict in July 2013 and the shooting and death of Mike Brown on Aug. 9, 2014, the movement has gained momentum and prominence nationwide, with marches and protests to end violence and police brutality.
I understand the fear and concern within the African-American community. With new case that arises where an African-American is shot and killed, often times at the hands of police officers, there is a growing concern of where to turn to for help and how we are to carry ourselves. It’s a scary time, and I’ll be the first to say that, I’m young and there are some days where I am really scared for my life. It’s scary when you see so many people who look like you, being pulled over for something as simple as a broken taillight, not signaling a lane change. It’s scary to be watching videos of people in their cars, leaning over with blood on their shirts or gasping for air as someone in uniform kneels on their neck.
And you can’t help but wonder, could that be you or your friends?
There have been mornings where, as I shut my apartment door, the thought crosses my mind, ‘Will this be the last time that I will be home to see my apartment?’ Every time I see a police officer, my heart quickens and my hands shake, especially when I see them pull up behind me. I grow tense, waiting for the red and blue lights to start flashing, my eyes checking my speed and making sure both hands are on the steering wheel to make sure that I have no reason to be pulled over. I remember some Sunday mornings, driving on my way to church, to have one police car follow me, then disappear only for another to fall in line behind me, as if on a schedule. I remember going for a jog in my own neighborhood one evening, only to have to duck and hide in the bushes because a truck of men raced past, hit a U-turn and came flying down the road back at me, shooting guns. Recently, I was taking a stroll down the street at night to clear my mind and had to have a friend with me who refused to hang up because he was scared for my life.
It’s in those moments you become scared for your life, because you think about all the other cases you have seen, heard, or read about, where it ended with someone dead.
Some people cry out that “All Lives Matter.” And that’s true; I completely agree. All lives do matter; no one deserves to be killed. Every person, every life, is special and precious, placed on earth at a specific time to add value to the plant, to change the world for the better. But, in order for all lives to matter, each individual life has to matter. It’s like going to a dinner party and watching everyone else get a plate of food except you. When you say “I want some food,” and someone responds, “Everyone wants some food,” that still didn’t give you your food, did it? You still want your part.
And that’s all we want; we, as an African-American community, want to make sure that our voices are heard, that our lives count, that our lives matter too, that we are a part of the American dream of “all men are created equal.” We don’t want to be seen as better than anybody; we just want to be seen as equal. Is not our blood red like everybody else? Do we not laugh, smile, cry like everyone else? Do we not have dreams and hopes, fears and doubts like everybody else? Black lives matter, just like all lives matter, to someone one. Each shooting and death is a father, mother, son, brother, sister, uncle, aunt, cousin, niece, nephew, friend, that is forever lost. They matter to someone.
And I matter to someone. I am a son, a brother, a cousin, a nephew, an uncle, a friend, a citizen to society. Am I not as valuable? Does my skin tone diminish the light and life in me? If I were to be shot and killed, who would miss me? My family and my friends, those who I work with or go to church with … someone, somewhere, would be hurt to hear about my death.
What about everyone else who has been victimized or even killed unjustly or unfairly, their final moments captured on film as their black and brown body releases a final breath? Didn’t they matter to someone? Or were they just target practice, a disposable item in the fabric of American society? That’s why we stand and say “Black Lives Matter,” because to someone out there, we do matter.
I have hope but it’s a struggle to hold on to some days, especially when cases are often brushed over or justified. Many times, they try to make it seem like the victim was deserving of their death, yet we see an uneven playing field when it comes to how black and white people are treated by the criminal system. But I’m not here to argue that.
I believe that God calls us to love each other like brothers and sisters, no matter what we look like.
“Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength. The second is this: Love your neighbor as yourself. There is no commandment greater than these.” Mark 12:30-31
In my mind, we are all neighbors in America; we all come from different backgrounds and different places, but we now all share the same neighborhood, the same community, the same land. We even have the same last name; we are all Americans, therefore making us all brothers and sisters. So we should love each other as brothers and sisters, because all lives matter.
And right now, some of your neighbors, my neighbors, our neighbors, are hurting, broken, in pain, crying, screaming, shouting, yelling for help. We need some sense of justice, yet often times, it feels like those cries fall on deaf ears.
Doesn’t it hurt when you see your brother or sister, or even your neighbor hurting? We are hurting right now. I am hurting. My mind, heart and soul can not deal much more with the weight of being black in America. My skin tone should not feel like a burden of potential death, but a blessing of the creativity of God’s idea of beauty in diversity.
Help us. Help us feel like we belong. Help us feel like we matter by fighting with us and for us as you would your own blood brother and sister.
Because our blood is red too; you see it on our clothes and splattered on the pavement.
Because our cries of anguish and tears of hurt, pain and frustrtation are real; you see them spilling down our faces at countless funerals and memorials, on live TV interviews and courtrooms.
Because, to someone out there, they matter. We matter. I matter. And you matter too.
And today, I just want to know that I matter to you as much as you matter to me.
The Book of James 