Today (Friday, July 8th, 2016), I saw in my Facebook feed the above photograph of a child's note-and-drawing, captioned, "A student left this note outside the school where Philandro Castile worked."
I see this note and I think of all the notes written and pictures drawn by my goddaughter for her Papa. Some have been sweet. Some have been hilariously and transparently manipulative as she does that thing 5ish - 8ish year-olds do. Some have been comprehensible to only her brilliant mind.
He and I have deconstructed, laughed over, and shaken our heads at these pictures and notes. While we sit on my porch or stand on his deck. While we talk on the phone during the day as we both work on projects at our respective homes. There is a special thread of our friendship, our brotherhood, our familyness that is these shared moments. It is one of innumerable threads.
When I imagine her having to write a note like this one to his *memory*...I AM READY TO BURN IT ALL TO THE GROUND.
*And*, of course, he and I have these conversations, and we always have. The thought of him being gone...I "just can't," as people say, but I do. This is where we live. This is how we love each other. We tell the truth. He laughs and says, "Maybe I should just hashtag my name now in preparation." I laugh and shake my head and sad-smile at him through the phone. And our hearts are exploding and there is screaming in our heads. And there always is. We still have to get supper. Look, none of this is new.
Look, none of this is new. If you didn't know that, if you are only learning about it now because of the intersection of our time that includes the #BlackLivesMatter movement specifically and the existence of social media, I would *like* to ask, how can that possibly be? Then again, that's the insidiousness of the construction of whiteness, isn't it? I have spent my entire adult life actively working on learning how it operates in me and building skills for smashing it, undermining it, tricking it...for accessing my own humanity and connection to interdependent life rather than luxuriating ignorantly in the whiteness that crushes my soul and kills Black and Brown people I love. Still, whiteness wants to own me at every turn. It is a continuous process of loving and working my way out of its clutches, over and over again. I will be doing it every day for the rest of my life. That is the truth. I am thrilled that it is, because WHAT'S THE ALTERNATIVE?
So, look, none of this is new. And if it seems impossibly horrible, that is because it is. And if it seems unimaginable unjust, that is because it is. And if it seems incomprehensible that this has been the state of things for hundreds upon hundreds of years, that is because it is.
So, whiteys, let's not turn away. Be in truth. Tell the truth. Act with truth. And know this: you can still find love in yourself, find hope, find laughter, and more. You can find all those things *and* be in righteous truth-telling fury. Just look at Black and Brown people in this country; they have been doing it for centuries.
Watch. Listen. Follow. Learn. Love.
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