To rest…
After Atatiana Jefferson was murdered in her home by police in the city where I live, I couldn’t sleep. I stayed up for hours reading information about the investigation, the police department, Atatiana’s life before she was murdered. I read about how she moved here, to my city, to care for her sick mother. About her eight year old nephew, who was in the room when she was murdered, only spared because she protected him with her body. I spent months strategizing how I could use my own body as a shield, like Atatiana did, to protect my own baby. What will happen if I sleep?
I agonized over my students. Who will shield their young and precious lives from the bullets of the state?
Breonna Taylor was sleeping when the police invaded her home. She was shot no less than eight times and was pronounced dead there, in her home, murdered by the police. She was 26 and after she was murdered I was prescribed meds because I stopped sleeping again.
The odds that I or anyone I love will be murdered by the police are statistically low. But the fear, the psychological trauma, causes an erosion of the mind and body that is constantly chipping away at Black people’s livelihoods and our ability to do basic things like breathe and sleep.
Imagine waking up every night thinking of your body riddled with bullets to protect your child, and then going to work with beautiful Black children every day. Imagine praying the world lets them sleep long enough to dream but knowing the world prefers them silent and effigies before they’re allowed to be human and whole. Imagine being afraid to sleep for days, months, years, and lifetimes and you will still only understand a fraction of my rage, my exhaustion, my fear, my loneliness, and my deep, deep sorrow.
I am privileged and blessed to have access to healthcare and a village of people who remind me of my humanity and allow me to collapse when I’m too tired to see it for myself, so I end with a prayer for all the Black and Brown women whose bodies are weary from carrying the weight of the world.
Dear God of the woman Ma’Khia Bryant should have become,
I come to you asking to protect our hearts long enough to find a place to rest. May our bodies find sanctuary in which to fall apart to come back together. Allow us to dream so that we may remember how freedom feels.
Amen.
This blog post is part of the #31DaysIBPOC Blog Series, a month-long movement to feature the voices of indigenous and teachers of color as writers and scholars. Please CLICK HERE to read yesterday’s blog post by Janelle W. Henderson (and be sure to check out the link at the end of each post to catch up on the rest of the blog series).
