So I’m tired.
And I can’t finish this week’s post.
But I just had to say to whomever needs to hear it, I care.
I believe Black lives matter. I know when I look at the men and women in my life who share the same shades of brown and yellow and red as me, that they were put on this earth for a purpose.
That’s not to diminish anyone else’s life, but it’s to say, like @lincolnablades tweeted on Wednesday, that “our lives matter too.”
It doesn’t always feel like others believe this though. And after Ferguson and Charlotte and Cleveland and Florida, yesterday we received another reminder from New York. That a video recording doesn’t matter. That the coroner declaring something a murder doesn’t matter. That none of it matters when you don’t view someone as a person in front of you.
Earlier this week, I had a semblance of hope come up in me. That 1% I talked about before? It was starting to be restored. I saw video after video and picture after picture of young people across this world voicing their disapproval. I saw people in London holding up signs that say “Black Lives Matter.” I saw students from my Alma mater shutting down Union Station in D.C. I saw students from Loyola University and Harvard University stage walk outs in protest. And I remembered why I call myself Black. Why I scream it loud and proud. Again, that’s not to diminish the other parts of my ancestry. I recognize I am also French Creole and Cajun. I am Southern to a fault sometimes. I am very much a woman.. but when I say I am Black, I acknowledge the unity of that word. I acknowledge the “globalness” of that word. I acknowledge the struggles Black people of all countries have had to endure and the accomplishments we’ve brought about.
I proclaim that despite what others may believe, my people do matter.
Because God put us on this earth for a reason.
And I know He is not pleased with the way His people are being mistreated.