I feel like these flowers.
I feel like I’m trying to absorb the water that is half of my life force but the water is tainted. Parts of me rise with the sun but other parts of me are so wilted and weak... it all seems hopeless.
My blackness, my culture, my melanin is half of my life force. The narrative the media paints of Black people and Black justice is tainted. The joy of my people, the resilience of my people, the love of my people is the other half of my life force and some of us are wilted, weak and feel hopeless right now.
We feel hopeless because we grow up internalizing and adjusting to seeing the destruction of our bodies and now the destruction of our homes.
If you feel like you’re living in a movie it’s because we are. We’re living in the re-boot of every Black film we’ve ever watched.
If we’re our ancestor’s wildest dreams we’re also living in their worst nightmare.
History is both amazing and annoying in that it truly does repeat itself. This is the same fight that Nat Turner fought. This is the same fight that Sojourner Truth fought. This is the same fight that Malcolm X fought. This is the same fight that Nelson Mandela fought. We walk the same roads that Martin Luther King Jr. walked. We attempt to educate our people the same as Frederick Douglass. The filter is just HD. The photos will be in color in the history books.
This is the same fight and like our ancestors, we are fed up. We are tired. We are angry.
Over 400 years of karma is being distributed and I can’t say I’m completely mad about it.
I’m not mad about the looting in downtown Chicago when I know the $23 million that was put towards the creation of the Bean (Cloud Gate - who tf calls it that anyway. It’s a damn silver jelly bean) would have been better served if invested into the South and West sides of Chicago.
I’m not mad about the looting of Target when Target has abandoned the Southside of Chicago.
I’m not mad about the vandalism that now defaces historic buildings in Chicago. Not when the history of those buildings is the blood, sweat and tears of my people embedded in the seamless marble and stone.
I’m not mad.
But I am pissed.
I’m pissed that they have siloed off Downtown and the Northside.
I’m pissed that I had to go to Griffith, Indiana to get groceries from Strack & Van Till (what the hell is that anyway? Tf is a Strack and a Van Till??).
I’m pissed that being able to make it to Indiana to get groceries is a privilege.
I’m pissed that people still don’t understand the intersectionality of these issues that have reached a peak.
I’m pissed that white people’s understanding of the value of Black Lives is conditional.
They understand the value of Black lives when our existence doesn’t inconvenience them. They understand the value of Black lives when we’re not in their neighborhoods asking them to join us in this fight for human rights. They understand the value of Black lives when we’re not interrupting baby Apple’s ‘Team UmiZoomi’ time.
They understand the value of Black lives when the conditions are just right. When they can pencil us in.
I’m pissed that white and Black people keep moving the goal post.
I’m pissed at people who are more upset about the destruction of material things than they are the desecration of Black bodies.
I’m pissed at people who are using classism to hide their racism.
I’m pissed that our Brown brothers and sisters are attacking us and were given carte blanche from racist Chicago policemen.
I’m so pissed about this it doesn’t make any sense. How idiotic are you for you not to see that we are fighting the same fight? How blind are you for you not to see that we come from the same bloodline? How do you not know that we the aboriginal people need to be unified at these times...at ALL times.
I’m pissed that so many Black businesses have been vandalized.
I’m also pissed that many of those Black businesses have only ever taken from the community and that their relationship with the communities they reside in are not equally yoked. (There are always outliers to the rule...so if it doesn’t apply let it fly.)
I’m pissed that so many Black businesses were not out protecting their investments but have the nerve to be angry with the Middle Eastern and Latino business owners for bearing arms and hunkering down.
I’m pissed because we are at war. I’m pissed because some of y’all don’t see that. Y’all don’t see that this is just one battle of many that have been fought and will be fought.
I’m pissed that so many Black people are using this time to inadvertently excuse the murder of Black people by the police by comparing it to Black on Black violence.
I’m mad pissed that we’re still using such a politically loaded term. A term that implies that there is something innate in Black bodies that makes us violent and makes us criminals. We act as though “white on white crime” doesn’t exist. As though white people aren’t the original terrorists.
I’m pissed that one of my best friends is white, an ally like no other, but yet most days I wake up and I hate her people.
I’m pissed that my brother is a police officer and women who I look up to like big sisters are police officers and they are villainized for the actions of their colleagues.
I’m pissed and I’m afraid for them. I want there to be more like them in the force. I want Black bodies to guard and protect Black bodies. I want them to not be the minority of the minorities in an organization that does not give them agency. I want….
I’m pissed that some of you are choosing to play the most asinine roles in the revolution.
I’m pissed because I don’t know my exact role in the revolution.
Maybe this is the starting point. Maybe admitting that I feel like these flowers, and that I’m pissed and that I don’t want my role in history to be insignificant is one step towards the part I’m supposed to play.
I’m most pissed because I don’t have the answers and the intersectionality of all of these issues is so large and complex that it feels impossible to even know where to begin with untangling this mess.
I find relief in knowing that there are so many Rich Aunties & Rich Uncles out there (I didn’t forget about the Uncles...wait on it.) that are just as pissed and just as willing to come together to at least start to figure out next steps. Even if those next steps are small I still feel as though it’s worth it.
The fight is worth it.
The anger is worth it.
Trust me that it’ll all be worth it in the end.
We protest for our nephews.
We protest for our sons.
We stand up for their futures.
This is Rich Auntie Energy.
T - Neé