Yesterday afternoon, I stood near my dining room table and proclaimed, “I can’t find my Tumblr!”
“You have a Tumblr?!” my husband replied. “I didn’t know that.”
“Not really. I posted, like, one original post there a few years back. I’m trying to find that post.”
Soon afterward, I found that Tumblr, and I found that January 2018 post. “That post” was the last one I shared on Tumblr.
I read it and let its core sink, again, into my bones. And I wondered:
How had I forgotten what had once
lived so deeply in my bones?
Looking at my Twitter profile yesterday, I saw too. many. images of police brutality not hidden under sensitive-content warnings.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad these images are being captured. I’m glad this history is being documented and made accessible. I’m especially glad attorney T. Greg Doucette is aggregating these incidents into one Twitter thread; in one single week of protests against racism and police brutality, his documented incident ticker is up to 334. Continue reading “TO LIFE”
Before writing “safer” a few days ago, I spent time reflecting on:
my many experiences witnessing numerous words and acts of racism since dating a Black man, and having Black sons, and watching—too relentlessly, given my own history of profound trauma—in the early months of #BlackLivesMatter.
I hadn’t then heard about the police killing of George Floyd,
whose fatal encounter with police began over a …
$20 bill suspected to be counterfeit.
Since posting “safer,” my husband and I have had many pained conversations around U.S. racism and state violence. The collective trauma level in our household has been very, very high.
In the quiet moments between those conversations, I’ve thought back to my pre-Anthony life,
and to my shocked disbelief when, in 2009, he told me:
“Our child is going to experience racism someday.”
Today, I spent an hour or two trawling through archive.org for some of the posts I wrote
as I learned about how modern U.S. racism is about much, much more
than lone individuals occasionally saying a cruel word.
In March 2012, the killing of Trayvon Martin prompted me to write about the 2009 conversation in which Anthony told me, “Our baby is going to experience racism someday.” Continue reading “died with his hands in the air”
On Monday morning, I spent three hours writing about cultivating empathy in the face of COVID-19.
By Monday evening, I was ranting to my husband about a particular group of people,
a divergence that didn’t amuse me until Tuesday morning.
For months now, I’ve half-heartedly worked on making a habit of morning “RPMs”: Read, Pray, Meditate. The days I begin thusly are often the most manageable of all, a fact that isn’t always persuasive to my 4 a.m. self: “Do I really want to RPM, or do I want to just stay here in bed and half-doze until the kids wake up? I mean, both of these things are good for me, right?”
Until this week, half-dozing has tended to win this morning battle within myself. Fortunately, I chose wisely this Tuesday morning, grumbling as I climbed out of bed and went to find my healing books. Continue reading “safer”
Today, I am grieving.
I am thinking of a paper published on January 26, 2020,
and my heart aches to see the chasm between what is now …
and what could have been.
On April 4, 2020, I wrote briefly about “invisible histories,” a concept to which author Nassim Nicholas Taleb introduced me. Continue reading “lost lives, lost histories”