Source: The Black Girl Magic of Empathy…

I’ll never forget the moment I realized my ridiculous ass 15-year-old was not in the store where I left her.

My heart beat loudly in my ears and started to speed up.  I knew something was wrong.    I tried to calm myself down.   I told myself I was overreacting, but I knew.  I walked through the store again. I checked the dressing room. Men’s and women’s.  I had them call her over the loudspeaker, the echo of her name rang loudly in my ears and my chest.

By the time I posted on Facebook that my child was missing I was distraught.  I was barely holding it together.  The police took an hour to show up.

And when the police showed up, they didn’t show up to actually help find her.  They only took a report and the officer told me they couldn’t do a search, but they could send a “city watch” alert.  An alert that I never saw or heard.  There was no attempt to look. No attempt to call other cops in the area.

In fact, only at my urging (and by urging I mean hysterical yelling and screaming) did the officer go to the store she disappeared from to rewind the security tape. At which time he told me she hadn’t left the store and was probably hiding inside.  Even after several thorough searches and the security guard saying that he remembered seeing her leave.

When the police officer told me he was going to search around the back of the building and asked me to stay back while he looked;  I held my breath until my chest and eyes began to burn.    I cried from relief and grief when he told me he didn’t find anything.

6 hours later, my daughter was found with her clothing ripped, limping about 15 miles from where she was last seen.

She still doesn’t talk much about that day.

But that didn’t stop everyone else from talking about it.  Entire discussions (On the thread I created to announce she was missing) dissecting small random facts; creating their own narrative about what happened,  who was at fault, what she should have done, what I should have done to prevent it and my personal favorite, why it would never happen to them.  I knew hindsight was 20/20 but who the hell knew that the nosebleed section provided such a clear view.  I guess the cheap seats are worth it, huh? — Sarcasm.

You know what was never a topic of conversation?  What the police could have done,  Why was there no search?  why would only a report be sufficient in the case of a missing child?   No question about the strangers that saw a young black girl walking alone and did nothing.   No question about the friends that spread the word and the gossip so that when she did return to school, she returned to a barrage of conversation that left her in tears every night.    None of them, their parents,  etc showed up.  Did I mention that my child attends a “good” school?   So that narrative about school and parent involvement and community at “good schools” is false.  She is a student-athlete.    Where were The coaches that demanded loyalty at school?  I don’t know, but I do know there was no follow-up;  no concern.  In fact, one of her teachers blatantly told her she was too dramatic and showed no empathy.  I had to remove her from school for the last few weeks.

So when the Kenneka Jenkins story broke on my Facebook timeline and the shock of her death slowly grew into the tidal wave that became the ‘victim blame game”; that quickly become a “black girls ain’t shit” tsunami, I was hurt, but I wasn’t surprised.

I don’t know what happened.  I haven’t watched the live videos, I haven’t decided to play inch high private eye and use blues clues /Scooby doo logic to create wild stories that have derailed the conversation away from what should be the most important topic.  A young black girl is dead.

A young black girl is dead.  And instead of mourning this loss, discussing how we as a community can get better; we are arguing about harvesting organs and the ways in which many folks feel she contributed and thereby deserved, her own death.

There is no concern for the fact that there are people on the other side of this story; living, breathing and grieving. That for every false story, or conversation that points the blame at her momma and black women who “cant be real friends”; there is a family that has to live through this. A family that has to see it, read it,  defend it, while still trying to sort through their own grief and confusion.

there is no concern that there are black kids, specifically black girls, who are watching and hearing  folks justify what should not ever be justifiable; black girls being taught that anything that happens to their bodies is their fault, that their death is not to be mourned and grieved; but to be picked apart as a cautionary tale for the next black girl who hasn’t quite found her armor and is unable to protect herself…

Black girls being taught that they better figure out how to protect themselves cause there ain’t no line at the door waiting to protect them.  And please don’t bring yo ass here talking about black women wanting to be independent and that’s why  ain’t nobody there, etc.

Especially if we aint gone discuss the situations that lead to that “independence”  which includes repeatedly leaving our young black girls unprotected and un- championed,   fuck you

A young black girl is dead and folks are more concerned with winning a Facebook argument about the alleged circumstances of her death; with little to no concern shown for her life and death as a whole.

She lived.  She breathed.  The space between her first and last breath is important. Who she was, is important.

So when I talked to my daughter about Kenneka, we cried as we recognized the fucked up reality that she was blessed that only a “piece” of her was violated.

I didn’t talk to my daughter about not trusting folks or how folks ain’t shit.  I talked to her about empathy;  I asked her to remember how she navigated the world before she was a “trending topic”.  To remember that there is always someone, real and human at the core of these conversations. That her desire to voice an opinion should never  take precedence over someones hurt and pain

I asked her to be the friend that she needed when she was unprotected; that she works hard to develop strong relationships. Relationships that are equally yoked;  I asked that she be the friend that asks her mom to go out and look for her missing friend, and the teammate that rallies the team for support.  I asked her to use her black girl magic and be the friend that realizes someone from the group has fallen behind and stops to wait.  I talked to her about teaching others the lesson she has learned…

I asked her to pick a side and that hopefully that side would be the one that was a protector of black girls and black girl magic.

My heart hurts for Kenneka and the many other nameless, faceless, black girls whose stories rarely garner enough interest or attention.

I pray for her family, her friends.  I pray for us to do better protecting our children and our girls.

peace and light mane.

 

 

 

 

Whenever something happens that involves the black LGBTQ community, I dread social media. Social media algorithms weaponize my likes and bombard me with the conversations over and over again.  I get to see some of the most hateful comments from folks that live and work in the same communities and city as I do.  Folks that I stand with on other issues.  I see them in community with other friends, that don’t shut it down, that condone and joke and laugh under the guise of “its just facebook” or justified by some religious belief… often the only time they proudly identify as a follower of that religion..

The cycle is always the same for me.  Start out jumping in the conversations, “teach my people” I think. ”I used to be just like them. Share sound logic and information.  It will help”.

Spoiler alert!  It never does.  What ends up happening is the trauma from those conversations and hurt are carried with me into other conversations. Into my meetings, into work and back home.

The pain of someone sharing freely their hate for you and being uplifted and co-signed by folks you know and love never goes away.

And for folks on the other side, for who this is just another hot topic to discuss… they are never really willing to do the work to understand the pain or even acknowledge the pain as real.

My life. My love is not an opinion. Its not a fucking debate to be won on facebook!

And I gotta be real. That makes my patience and tolerance real short in these conversations.  I have found myself quickly deciding someone was homophobic and keeping it moving. I have unfollowed and unfriended them expeditiously on social media and if possible, in real life.  Self-preservation Is a necessary evil in these social justice streets.

So many of us think “activism” is a destination. You read a few books, learn all the social justice lingo and “mama you made it”.   you lit out here!  A nigga quite literally, can’t tell you nothing.  So many of us who are so well versed on racism are blind as fuck when it comes to the intersections of gender and sexual orientation and refuse to see it.

Which is why it becomes so easy to label folks as trash and keep it moving. As my activism has evolved, so has my feelings regarding easily discarding black folks.   I cannot ignore the fact that black people are consistently labeled as ‘trash”.  We are the most expendable in all circumstances and I  feel “some kind of way” about how easily I fall into that cycle.  I also have to be honest and say some folks just caught the collateral damage from raging homophobic, transphobic, sexist and their questions or comment made me feel it necessary to be “better safe than sorry”.  Contrary to popular belief, while black girls are magic, we aint super heroes.    I see folks in their feelings about how easy it is to be dismissed.. without analyzing how dismissive or superficial their own conversation attempts or questions were to begin with.

Labeling black anti-gay, anti-trans, and/or sexist black folks as trash and removing them from my life does make me feel better. It gives me a sense of control. I cant stop the votes that limit my rights, I can’t stop the looks, and the judgment, the uncomfortable moments of silence after I introduce my partner or mention that I have one.  But I can, in that moment, silence them. it allows me to create a space where I can see the world I want to live in. But it ain’t reality.

But it doesn’t solve the issue. It doesn’t stop folks from being trash and that means the cycle will always continue.  I will always be fighting for lgbq rights or the rights of trans folks, or women or some combination of the three… and only finding power in shutting them down and silencing them on my social media feed.

What kind of power is that?  That aint the liberation im putting my life on the line for in these streets.

But whose job is it to do the work on moving folks from trash to treasure?

And who’s going to protect all of the black folks that fall outside of the traditional “norm” in the meantime?

I aint got the answers, Sway.

 

 

 

*p.s.  i aint edit this thang for spelling nor grammar.  and I dont plan on it.  if its hard to actually understand, I will think about it. If you just pedantic in nature. this aint really the spot for ya. but you are still welcome cause of the whole not throwing folks away thing.