In 2016, Me and a group of educators protested in the streets of Philly because another black body was killed .
Today, I attended a vigil for another black body that was killed .
Between then and now, I have seen a growing number of hashtags that represent the black bodies killed.
I must tell you I don’t remember there names; Sometimes, I can recall a couple at a time when I think hard.
I can not remember their names
and I get their stories confused.
Is this the one who said “I can’t breathe” or the one killed on bart or the one shot at the waffle house or the one killed on the auction block or the one put in the cotton gin or the one thrown off the slave ship.
a blurr of blood
Sometimes, I wonder …do I have too many ancestors?
…too many people who have died for this. Its too much on my shoulders, I’m just a person. I just got to the point where I like the hair that grows out of my head, after 23 years, how am I suppose to deal with the death that pollutes the air.
How many vigils? How many protests? How many marches? How many police reports? How many mug shots? How many times will I have to go to the bottom of the ocean to find the remnants of my humanity?
I often wonder, when pregnant women were thrown overboard, did the baby die in peace?
The baby floating in there mother with nothing to remember but the womb and the water.
and when we pour libations and we shout the names of our ancestors, I want to shout this baby, the one who only remembers womb and water. The ones that died in the baracks. The ones that have no birth certificates. The ones that died walking from Mississippi to the promise land in the great migration. The ones who got no hashtag. The ones that died of starvation yesterday.
The ones that are dead inside and still walking.
Black death is the reason I take care of myself. The reason I know that my body must have fresh fruits, clean air, dance to the drums, and swim. Because I know what it means to live in the space enclosed by dark skin.
It means that time is not promised, murder is around the corner, at the waffle house, in the ocean, and at the bart. It means that this cocoa butter I rub on my elbows is the closest thing I’ve got to holy water and the necklace I chose to wear around my neck is a peace offering.
I am alive.
Ha, yes I laugh.
I am alive and healthy and walking. I am the descendant of the the survivors of the African Holocaust, the womyn you could not sterilize, the family you could not split, the love you could not understand.
Yes, I am that. I am #AnotherBlackBody
“I am the hope and the dream of the slave”- Maya Angelou