Done with Black Lives Matter
Y’all, I hate to say it, but I’m done with Black Lives Matter — for realz!
I dreamed about being robbed by Black hoodlums. Racism and White Supremacy play out on the landscape of my subconscious. Deep down I believe every word I was ever told about Blackness and Whiteness. My mother drove it home every time she took me and my brothers out in public. She would snap at us for “misbehaving,” saying “White people already think Black people are ignorant!” By the time I heard “Black is Beautiful” the long-term damage had been done.
Black Lives Matter is so necessary, but it comes way too late for me. I think the greatest flaw of the movement is it may be directed at the wrong audience. That may also be my internalized racism kicking in. That may be more of the White gaze peering out from behind my African eyes. I assume that this well packaged message of the value of Black Lives is for White consumers. Maybe I’m way too worried about the impact of this message on White people.
Regardless, I don’t want to just frigging matter. How lame when you think that shit through. Black Lives Matter? We fight over turf about a damn slogan. We get ruffled when people say All Lives Matter. What the fuck does it mean to matter, anyway? Money matters! What you wear to a job interview matters. Wearing a condom for sex with strangers matters. I hope my life more than just fucking matters. I hope my life is frigging essential. My life is fucking magic. Black Lives Magic, bitches! Black Lives Miracles! Black Lives Majestic! How else we survived a four-hundred year, worldwide campaign of hate?
People get ruffled AF when I say engaging through anger defeats the purpose. I guess it’s ‘cause I assumed the uprising was to get to live in peace. I know for some the purpose is just to win—to matter. What’s the end game? What does winning in this struggle for Black lives to matter look like? Fuck the rhetorical. What will it mean for me getting out of bed everyday? Sometimes I think it means, getting “their” side to do whatever “our” side wants. Maybe it means it’s “our turn.” Maybe it’s White people on plantations picking cotton and singing spirituals!
I want a movement of loving up on Blackness to celebrate it’s rightful place in history, with Black people as founding mothers and fathers of us all. Blackness will be the walk on the red carpet, a Rolex watch, a Lambo, or some fresh J’s. Instead of getting weaves, my sisters will go a little dark on that foundation, while hair does whatever the fuck God wants. Give me the real story of Africa blasted through all media channels in a campaign on par with “This is your brain on drugs” or “Where’s the beef!” to have the world saying “Thank you, Africa, for every-fucking thing!”
That’s heavy lifting and I won’t settle for White fear. Putting a couple White cops behind bars for killing Black people will send a message about what happens when you get caught hating on Blackness. It doesn’t inspire Black love and, real talk, I won’t settle for anything less than universal adoration of my Black ass.
