Friday morning, I sat in a zoom call, trying to recollect myself after hearing and watching the stories of two black men being gunned down; 1 for jogging through a neighborhood, 1 for running from police while on FB live. My boss asked me repeatedly was I ok. She wondered why I was so quiet. The trauma had finally gotten to me and I couldn’t focus. In the midst of this pandemic, I’ve been afraid to leave the house, for fear of catching COVID-19. I have a compromised immunity and high blood pressure, which puts me at a greater risk to fight off infection. I take my meds everyday to remain undetectable, but an elevated blood pressure weighs on the heart, causing other problems. Now, leaving the house is an even more daunting task. Don’t get it twisted. I never believed in this “level playing field” bullshit, or “this virus affects everyone equally” rhetoric. I knew from the beginning that black and brown bodies would be more susceptible to this virus and poverty would keep us from equal access to care, medicine, quality foods, and eventually earnings. I knew that once masks were mandated, I’d be easily pre-conceived as a threat. It would be a justification for fear. I knew that with social distancing in place, black and brown bodies would be policed more heavily. What I didn’t realize, is that lives would still be taken away at the hands of people who still believe black and brown bodies were not worthy of existence. I didn’t expect this additional layer of trauma to resurface. I didn’t think it went away, but I didn’t foresee our lives continuing to be touched by it.

I am already riddled with fear. Sometimes they consume me and I have to retreat to spaces that provide comfort. Wine and bourbon are comfort. Cooking is comfort. Weed is an escape that provides comfort. Sleep, though few and far between, provides comfort, but my fears resurface regularly. I’m afraid for my parents who have their own underlying health conditions that put them at risk. The fear of having to bury someone during a time where your ceremonies of remembrance are limited, and a space where people can’t properly grieve for their loved ones. Lives that are lost can’t be celebrated in the grand ways in which they deserve. I fear for my own life and the thought of my parents haven’t to bury me because I’ve succumbed to the virus, or even worse, the hands of someone who sees me as a threat and takes my life. I’m afraid for the children and families I work with, who don’t have enough food, or whose parents are essential workers, exposing themselves for the sake of others, or parents who don’t work so providing for a household is almost impossible. I’d be naive to believe that my hopes for humanity reigning over all, would come to fruition during a time like this, but how many more black lives will we have to grieve? How many more black and brown bodies will lay in refrigerated trucks and eventually shallow mass graves, tucked into the earth like slaves on the Amistad, before we see change? How many poor people will perish because of a lack of resources? Are we doomed to live in fear perpetually, praying and hoping and wishing for a sense of peace that never comes?

I usually start my posts with a cute anecdote, and end them with a resolution that somehow helps me to move forward and continue pushing. This time feels different. So, I’ll leave you with a story.

It was 2014. I was living with my roommate Kara and in a relationship that I needed to end. He had moved in with me and things got bad. I wasn’t perfect, and neither was he, but the stresses of life took over us and I found myself in the position of having to choose to let go. Only, I was afraid to tell him. This night was the worst. We got into a physical altercation and to keep things from escalating, I left the apartment, and drove off in my car. I wasn’t afraid for my life, but I was emotionally heightened and needed a space to calm myself. I was driving a white C Class Mercedes at the time, and was passing through an area by the Pentagon when I was pulled over by two white cops. I immediately stopped and pulled over, heart still racing from before and provided them with the information requested. I asked why I was being pulled over and was given no response. One cop comes back to the car after running my information and begins to ask me a series of questions about an arrest record, if I had kids, what tattoos I had, where I was from, and if I had weapons in the car because I “matched the description” of someone they were looking for. I was an instructional coach at a charter school at time, so I was able to provide my badge, work ID to prove to him that the person in question wasn’t me, seeing as though a criminal record would disqualify me from that job, but he refused to let me go. Even after running my social security number, he refused to let me go. I was asked to step out of the car and stand near the rear so I could be seen while they searched my vehicle and continued to ask me questions. At this point, fear and panic take over and my heart is racing even more. I didn’t know what to do, so I called my roommate, who was a kindergarten teacher at my school and was working her night job, to vouch for me. She pulls us to the scene where I am, and walks to my car. The officer walks her towards his car and asks her a series of questions, out of earshot, and once he decided I was who I said I was, he came back to my car, but I could not drive home because there was an “issue” my license. I had leave the scene with Kara, ride to another’s friends’s house (Thanks Jon Jon) and come back to pick up my car. It dawned on me. A white woman had to come to my rescue to keep be from being detained by the police, because I was a black man driving a nice car. I wasn’t issued a citation of any kind. Nothing was found in the car. No arrest warrants. No prior convictions. No criminal record whatsoever. It took a white woman standing up for me. Now, every time I think I want to buy another car, or drive again, I think about that night and wonder, what if I didn’t have a Kara? What would have happened to me is she didn’t come?

Here is the toughest part. I don’t have any answers to any of this. We are in the midst of a pandemic, where black and brown bodies are suffering the most, yet we are policed the most. White allies we need YOUR voices. Black and brown people your fears are valid. Your truths are real. Feel whatever you need to feel during this time and do what you can to feel as normal as possible. The world and its systems have proven time and time again that they were not built to support or protect us. The steps of Michigan’s government buildings are riddled with protestors who feel like their rights have been taken because they can’t get a haircut. Black men can’t even go for runs without the fear of being gunned down. We are not the same.

Fuck a haircut. Fuck my nails and feet. I just want the freedom we deserve to exist, and be protected in the world. For now I’ll allow myself to feel my feelings and speak from a space that honors those who have fallen; the ones who look like me. 2020 is here. There is nothing we can do about its existence. Guard your hearts and protect your minds. Your peace is essential. Your feelings are valid. You are loved and appreciated. Let others know that. Not sure when I’ll blog again, but I honor those who have asked for content. I’ll doing what I can during this time to protect my own sanity.

Until next time. Be safe. Stay Healthy. All 2020