At first, I was angry. Then I was fearful, heartbroken, bitter, and full of resentment until all of a sudden I was numb.
And with numbness came a familiar sense of anguish. A feeling of defeat. Like no matter how many names we add to the never-ending list of Black people who've been wrongfully murdered in this country, nothing changes. It feels like screaming in your dreams when no one can hear you and suffering in silence as life goes on around you. It's waking up exhausted, not being able to explain why. Not wanting to check your phone or talk to anyone who asks, “How are you doing?” Simply put, it's draining.
Me, a 20-year-old, is drained.
I can only imagine how my parents feel or how their parents feel, having to relive the nightmare that is watching people from your community killed senselessly because to be Black in America is to be inherently threatening. Because society tells us that in order to survive an interaction with the police everything has to be just perfect. Don’t move too fast, don’t move too slow, put your hands out the window, wait, no put them on the steering wheel, where is my license? A routine traffic stop can easily become a crime scene as was the case in 2016 for Philando Castile who was shot and killed in front of his girlfriend and 4-year-old daughter.
So here we are, years later, in the middle of a pandemic still demanding justice and systemic change. Trying to cash the same check Dr. King spoke of in his “I Have a Dream” speech. Almost 56 years after the Civil Rights Act was signed, and Black people are STILL fighting for equal protection under the law and the genuine right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.