Hope was 12 when we became a family. She was the same age as Tamir Rice.
The. Same. Age.
She might’ve have physically passed for a teen a few ages older, but she could not be mistaken for a 20 year old.
She experienced some rough things in her young life, but none of Hope’s trials can be mistaken to have been her fault.
In spite of this, I genuinely fear for her safety as a young Black child.
To be Black and young is to be in danger in America. Having a Black president has changed nothing; if anything it has made the vitriolic hatred and the systemic efforts to sustain marginalization more visible, more socially acceptable.
It is exhausting month after month, year after year to hear and see people of color–often young people of color–assaulted and assassinated in the streets of a country I love and call home–in spite of a long history of hatred and genocide–with little more than the acknowledgement that the episodes are “tragic.”
They are more than tragic, but I have no more descriptive words. I’m just sad, exhausted and irrepressibly angry that this is life for me and my beautiful girl.
Meanwhile, “affluenza” boy is on his way home, still breathing and no doubt arguing that privilege made him do it.
I hope that 2016 will be different, but there is little real hope that it will be. The data show there is little reason for me to maintain hope that our sons and daughters will be more safe next year.
No justice, no peace.
See justice, see peace.