The killings of black people, scare tactics, protests, images, and everyone’s personal opinions have sent me into a social media and media fast. I’m beyond tired. And to keep it all the way real, I’ve been tired.
As a young girl, on August 10, 1996, I travelled to an open house with my mother and younger sister. The house was in Oakwood Village, Ohio, and as I described it in my journal, had four bedrooms, two and a half baths, a beautiful backyard, large front yard and one big basement. The only problem was that, “the dang on house costed $189,900.00.”
With $4.80 saved up, I set out to save enough money to purchase the house for us. I was only twelve.
We never got that house but when I was twenty-seven I bought one for myself and my 7-year-old daughter. It was the first house I ever lived in and I was barely able to pull enough money from my retirement in order to pay the $7000 necessary for closing costs, but God. I finally had a house and I cried sweet little baby tears upon closing.
And to go along with the house, I had a professional job and a college degree. My daughters would now grow up in a suburb that offered good schooling and safe neighborhoods. They were getting the head start I wish I’d had.
However, even with the house, job, degree, accolades, and whatever else I’ve achieved, it is always in the back of my mind that I am a black woman.
It is now my duty to teach my daughters that even though they are black, they hold a privilege. And even though they hold a privilege, they are black.
As a black woman with a black husband, I fear things that I shouldn’t have to fear as a human being in America. I fear losing my husband. He is a handsome, strong, educated, funny, supportive, black man. Since the day we met, I’ve known that his pure existence causes many to be more scared of him than they are of a loose pack of street dogs searching for their next meal. Because if he’s not dressed as a businessman going into the office, but instead, dressed casually like any other father running errands, he’s seen as a threat.
I fear that my oldest daughter, who just started driving, will one day not come home. Even though we live in Cleveland, there are still suburbs within that do not accept us. Places where white men have rolled down their window, stuck their head out, and yelled “Nigger” as I’ve gone for a walk. Undergraduate schools where a teacher has placed me in a group with the only other black person in the class and ignored our requests for additional help while our white counterparts were allowed to ask as many questions as necessary. Locations where people have crossed the street (pre COVID) just to get away.
The fears for my family, the knowledge of racism, the blatant disrespect, the looks of disgust (or requests to touch) when my hair isn’t bone straight…in addition to having to go through regular human problems…it’s all a lot to deal with.
On top of all of that, I’m supposed to still live a “normal” life, teach my daughters how to be black women that will ultimately be overlooked for opportunities, keep my household running smoothly, answer questions from those that want to be educated, continue to write, and figure out how to pivot a business impacted by COVID.
And for the most part, I will, because that’s what I’ve always had to do. But like I said, it’s a lot. So forgive me if I am quiet during this round of protests while others are loud. Forgive me if I post things that don’t address the climate of America. Forgive me if I decide to read a book instead of watching the news.
I’ve been black my entire life and I need a moment.
