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.

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.

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