Starting with Trayvon Martin on February 26, 2012, my best friend has written, on the inside of his wrist, the names of every unarmed black person who has died unjustly. He writes their names in black ink, sends me a picture and then we both sit in silence because there are no words that need to be spoken. We innately know what the other is thinking and those thoughts are too big for words – too heavy to adequately express our pain.
The name written in ink is a very small token serving as a reminder that the life taken mattered; even though we live in a society where black male lives often don’t. It’s a reminder of his mortality. My friend knows deep down that it could have been him and he doesn’t feel the need to continuously verbalize his fear; he lives it. Everyday. And every time he looks at his wrist he is reminded that his skin color is a source of fear in others; a source of fear that could cost him his life.
As someone who has a black male father, black male cousins, and black male friends, I worry, but choose to keep my fear silent as well. It manifests itself in the tears that fall during my most vulnerable moments. It appears when I text them and ask them if they made it home safely. And it causes rage when I hear them explaining to their black sons that the rules are different for them.
It was easier for me to worry about them. Because if I’m worrying about someone else, I don’t have to think about the impact that this has on my own life- my mother’s life, my grandmother’s life. I have to be the strong black woman that society tells me I am. I don’t have time to look fear in its eyes and actually grieve for the culture. But I knew deep down that it always could be me. My being female does not discount my being black. I’m not exempt. The fact that I’m an educated, professional black woman doesn’t buy me a free pass.
The death of Botham Jean on September 6, 2018 drove this point home for me. I could be next. In fact, you don’t even have to leave your house to be killed. They will come to you. That day, I saw my mortality sitting on the couch doing nothing but being black. I realized that I too am a target. It seems with each passing day more things are added to the list of what justifies killing a black person – breathing, running, sleeping, walking, riding a train. Never mind that there is a global pandemic, I could die from just simply being me.
I don’t want the next name written on my wrist to be my best friend, or my father, or any black person – or white person for that matter. I want to use my pens to write about the happiness in the world – the joy that can be felt by loving one another. But you can’t write about it, when you don’t feel it. My pens will continue to inscribe my wrists with the names of my brothers and sisters that die from their lack of privilege. It reminds us that we are not valued by society at large. Even if all the killing stopped, the ink on our wrists will never quite wash away. It is branded in our hearts and it stains our bodies like the blood of the innocent people that have been slain.