Executed Under The Frosty Night

It is cold.

It has been for days, weeks, even.

Up here in New England, the cold can be bone chilling and not even a weighted blanket is enough.

The same is true for the upper midwest. I spent part of my time growing up in Michigan and went to grad school in Michigan, lived in Illinois, Chicagoland, specifically. The Hawk is brutal in February.

So, on the first full week of Black History Month 2022, in the midst of all the other antiBlack vitriol happening from book banning to hand wringing about a Black woman on the Supreme Court, Minnesota decides to show it's racist self once again.

A young Black man, in his own home, trying to stay warm, chilling, watching TV, is slaughtered. He was probably doing like my kids when it is their chill time, half awake, half asleep. Two of my sons are licensed gun owners. So was this young man. He probably had it nearby for protection, he did not live in the area where one can just leave their doors unlocked.

Like Breona Taylor in Kentucky, Minnesota decides that a night raid is in order, in full tactical gear, busting down someone's door with a battering ram and expecting them to not react.

He had no chance to comply.

He was in his home.

He was half asleep.

He was under a blanket.

He was a licensed gun owner.

He was not the target of the raid.

He was not a criminal.

He was a kid.

And they executed him.

Then the PR campaign filled up my Instagram.

They were trying to justify it, give a reason for it.

History repeating itself over and over and over.

And we are not supposed to react.

But they did.

And spent a cold day and evening taking to the streets, closing down bridges, demanding justice and not another press conference with Becky and Bob giving their scripted replies.

We are tired.

Since Tamir, we are tired.

Why are white people so scared of their own shadows? After 400 years, they know we are not descending on Greenwich to murder them in their sleep. We just want to live and have our children able to wake up the next day and go about their lives.

My children are all adults now, 18 to 35. And I still worry. Because white people will see their Black skin and feign some fright that could cost them their lives. Even being half white won't protect my grandsons, it is their big Black father that causes the fright that will course through their veins.

We are tired.

Tired of talking about it, honestly, because they know what they are doing.

They created this boogeyman and then funded it, like the inflated military budget with all that excess equipment that will trickle down to JimmyBobJoe who wants to flex his local muscle to keep the Black folks in line.

It is tiring.

We are not criminals, not any more than white or Latinx or Asian.

Yet, from teachers calling the police on five year olds to stop-and-frisk to no knock raids, Black lives are surveilled and slaughtered more often than a hashtag.

Amir deserved to live, to chill at night in his own place with all the expectations of his coming day.

Period.

Hannah's Song

We came together last night and sang Hannah's song. Family from California was in town, it was the night before Aunt Hannah's Home Going Celebration. We met at my house late in the evening to fellowship, remember, hug, eat, and laugh. Thom felt the love in the room and I'm sure his mom would've appreciated us doing what she did all her life - love. Aunt Hannah was a gracious woman. Her gentle spirit, sparkling eyes, and constant smile will be remembered. She has left us physically, but never spiritually. The laughter was like music in Thom's ear. For the first time in weeks I saw my cousin relax. He has been in a tornado for the past four weeks from his mother's diagnosis to her death. Even in her final stage, Aunt Hannah was granted her desire. She asked to not suffer long when it was her time to go, she had been a caregiver her whole life and I'm sure her prayer was for her son. In the last days of her life, she still greeted well wishers with a wa...

Brothers, Can we Talk?

I'm a Black woman, born of a Black woman and a Black man. When my mother died, it was my father who nurtured me and instilled in me a sense of pride of self, of my race, of my abilities to do whatever I put my mind to do. He never imposed limitations on me as a Black woman. The only caution he ever gave me was to not burn my candle at both ends and to be mindful of my health, I am an asthmatic. He never stopped me from trying anything and always encouraged me. Daddy was a strong Black man who introduced me to Shirley Chisholm when I was a little girl. He reminded me of the fortitude of my late mother's quest for gender equality in the workplace and of the namesake who marched at Selma. He is the one who gave me my pseudonym, Tayé. Daddy was a strong tower of empowerment and fought all the way to his last breath for social, gender, and racial justice. It is in remembering my father this morning that I'm asking the brothers, can we talk? What is it, especially those of my g...

Ashes to Ashes

This is Ash Wednesday. For a lot of Catholics and Anglican Christians, it begins the holy season of Lent. We remember we are but dust and to dust we return, ashes to ashes. It is a somber reminder of our humanity and the finality of life. We are a mere breath. Today, as a Hospital Chaplain Resident, I am imposing ashes on patients, family, and staff. It is a visible marker of a shared faith and belief. We look with anticipation to the finished work of salvation on the cross and in eager hope of the resurrection. As my day progressed, I noticed how much hope was in the eyes of the ones giving and receiving this reminder of our existence. It was both a somber moment and a joyful moment. Two things can exist at the same time. Like the world we find ourselves in. Even as it seems like the darkest, certainly the darkest I’ve known in my six decades on this earth. Completely imperfect as a nation, there was still a glimmer of light until the nightmare became reality. We wonder abo...

The Musings of a Latte Queen: Narratives of Everyday Life

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