Stop Killing Us: A Real Life Nightmare
I started writing something, because that’s what I do. But this time healing through words didn’t work. In fact, it hasn’t in a while. This time I just couldn’t do it. Nothing was coming.
I’m just so tired. Every single time I sat down the same thing kept coming out: Stop Killing Us.
I’ve been on texts and calls with black friends all day and it’s been the same. We’re scared. For our families. For ourselves. For our people. We’re exhausted. For our families. For ourselves. For our people.
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We can’t stop thinking about this and move on like nothing has happened or just go on with our regular daily tasks. Some folks are talking and posting about this nonstop — and honestly, I don’t want to see people posting their run on social media or going on and on about bird watching and how a birdwatcher would clearly be an okay black person (I’m actually an avid birdwatcher and a pretty great person though), or resharing videos reaffirming the entertainment value of black death. I also don’t want people just playing the part they think they should play by day and being Becky or Karen by night. It feels like everyone wants to tweet or post something because it’s becoming part of some performance or show where people play the part of outraged bystander or virtuous savior or blue checkmark clout-chaser.
What I want is for people to actually start being about what they say they about. It’s easy to say you care and that you understand or that you don’t understand but you want to help. But what are you actually doing? What are you doing every single day to stop the killing of black people? What are you doing every single day to make yourself think about race and racism and white supremacy and oppression and colonialism? What are you doing to make change in this revolution towards a more just society?
Yeah, you.
The person who might not have to think about it. The person who may be able to go through the day and watch a video or tweet the hashtag but then just move on. The person who has never experienced it so just can’t believe it’s real — without a video. Some of us don’t have that luxury. This seeps into every bit of our being and weighs us down and keeps us on edge because every morning when we wake up, we realize that the start of a new day doesn’t mean the nightmare has ended. We look at our to-do list for the day and don’t know if that totally innocent thing we have to get done is going to be the end of us.
I keep having this dream where I’m running scared and I’m screaming. I’m keenly aware of my inability to breathe.
I’m keenly aware of my imminent death. I turn and can see a face. I don’t know who it is, and I can’t quite recognize the voice. Is it someone from a job who once told me I was angry? Is it someone from a store who once told me I didn’t belong? Is it someone who told me I hated white people because I was asking my life to be valued? Is it the cop who pulled me over and asked if the car belonged to me? Is it the concerned citizen who saw my nice bike and asked if I could afford it? Is it the cop who pulled me over as a teen and asked my white friends if they felt safe and knew me? I’m not really sure, but in the dream I always end up going into some long speech trying to save myself.
I say to the voice I can’t quite place:
Please stop! Stop hunting me! Stop trying to kill me! Stop trying to murder me! Stop trying to lynch me!
Stop killing us.
You don’t know me, but it doesn’t matter. I deserve to live.
I deserve to live without having to constantly wonder if I can do basic things without risk of death.
I deserve to be able to plan for tomorrow without constantly wondering if tomorrow will come.
I deserve to be able to wake up and fully live without worrying about being called names or told that if I changed other people wouldn’t be so scared of me.
I deserve to get old. I deserve to see my son get old. I deserve to age gracefully without wondering if today is the day that getting old is a luxury and privilege I don’t have access to.
I deserve to not have to relive the murder, lynching, beating, and genocide of my people every single day so that others believe racism, colonialism and white supremacy exist.
I deserve the same things as Becky and Karen. I’m Tamika. You don’t know me, but I am owed a full life and deserve to feel like my skin color is not my death sentence.
Stop killing us.
I don’t want a hashtag with my name. I don’t want endless debates online about whether I deserved it or was somehow a good enough black person that this shouldn’t have happened to me. I don’t want to have my friends who knew me have to speak on my behalf to defend my humanity. I don’t want my family to have to suffer the repeated trauma of seeing videos of my last agonizing moments. I don’t want any of this. I just want to live.
Usually at this point I wake up in a sweaty panic. Whimpering. And hoping that I didn’t wake up my wife or my son. I don’t want them to see me like this. I wake up more scared than I was when I was dreaming because I know the nightmare of this racist world is worse than any dream. Opening my eyes doesn’t change anything in this nightmare because there are others who refuse to ever wake up, open their eyes, and see the truth of injustice. There are those who say they want justice but fail to realize that real justice isn’t putting someone behind bars because that doesn’t bring back the black life lost.
So, you have to understand in the morning when I get up sleep deprived, raw, and on edge, it all seems like it’s too much. I can’t fathom how anyone else is getting through every day without this consuming them. I can’t process how some people say that now is just not the time. I hear from my non-black friends that this is just too hard or overwhelming to imagine or think about. But for so many of us it’s hard to think about anything else. Yeah, we find a way to keep going because we always do. We find a way to find joy because we always do.
We find a way to keep fighting for others to see our humanity because they never have.
I feel like in another month (or probably less) there will be another death. Another black man trending just like George. Another black woman lost and overlooked just like Breonna. And countless more black trans folks whose names no one ever even learns. If not another death, then another instance where a white person thinks calling 911 will save them from someone whose only threat was the blackness of their skin.
I’m exhausted. I’m out of words. I really need white people to do more than just say they’re fighting for justice. I need them to get up every day and repeat and ask themselves five questions and really face themselves and their answers. I want them not just to lean in, but to live in, to an urgency to do more. I want them to sit with these things and not turn away when they hear themselves say the answers:
1. Do I understand that not being racist isn’t the same as being anti-racist?
2. Why am I so afraid to be brave enough to confront my power and privilege?
3. What am I waiting for to decenter whiteness and realize just because I have never experienced it (or seen the research to prove it) doesn’t mean it isn’t real?
4. What am I doing every single day to force myself to think about racism and white supremacy?
5. What am I doing every single day to stop the killing of black people?
Maybe one day I’ll figure out how to come up with more eloquent words. None of this seems like it’s enough. It didn’t help. I’m still hurting. I’m still crying and unable to move. I’m still stuck in this nightmare. Black people have carried us for so long, I hope other people decide it’s time to wake up and actually do some of this heavy lifting. We’re exhausted. This must end.
Stop Killing Us.
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