memoir of a protest

as i sit here in the sun, i am surrounded by the warmth and love of my people.
A Black woman spoke. As She always does. She spoke of the violence and pain inflicted on Our
communities by America’s oldest terrorist organization, the Chicago Police Department. She
spoke with passion and with grace, using words that could be spread by all and be understood by
“How many brothers they took?”
“How many sisters they took?”
“How many babies they killed?”
This message was breathtaking in its simplicity. However, I do wish She had said one thing:
“How many people are here?”
Because there were a lot. Of Us.
But there were even more of Them.
In Our terror and in Our fear, We protected one another. We pushed Them back with tears in Our
eyes when Their batons would crack into the skull of a Sister, hoping that They would stop. That
They would understand where Our pain came from. Our anger. Our fatigue.
The response to Our call was a baton to Our face and to Our stomach.
Our unity was threatening. The idea that there would be that many bodies, that many beautiful
souls coming together to fight for Our collective freedom. A freedom We know will only come
once Black Freedom is achieved.
Unfortunately for Us, We were a little confused on who could be Black and Free.
One brother (with some henny in his hand, mind you) spoke to Them using derogatory words
created by Them. Words that dismantled Our ability to be intimate and to love each other. These
words like “f*ggot” and “d*ke” have zero place in this fight but when We said that to Our
brother, his response was flippant.
“Who gives a fuck?”
Who does? i wonder. Even as We sit here chanting for Black liberation, i wonder who We think
We’re fighting for.




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