Life- 300 Word Story

10510_635635433131990_1060917188_n

Life

Life. This isn’t supposed to be her life. Her youngest is thirteen. She was almost done.

Life; Now is driving children from place to place. Is school, basketball practice, doctor’s appointments in the middle of the day. Is rushing home for foster care visits.

Life is trading in her silver Audi; the one she got for twenty-five years of marriage; for a shiny black Lincoln Navigator to tote grandchildren, grandnieces, and grandnephews in.

Audi’s don’t fit two car seats, two booster seats, and two more seats where her daughter and grandson will argue over who has shotgun. Audi’s don’t fit her life; don’t fit her “I was almost done with this damn fight for shotgun.” Don’t fit her quick reminders spoken more to herself “But I love my grandkids.”

“Life, these kids don’t think about anyone’s lives but their own.” She might say if you catch her at the right moment. If you can catch her in between all of the newfound duties that seem to have taken over her life.

She is almost done with some of the duties. The grandkids will convert from fosters to adoptees. This will lead to less regulation, less appointments, and more time for her to enjoy her new life.

If you can catch up with her she will probably be wearing athletic gear; black tights, black top, bright shoes. They’re slimming. They’re fun. “If I’m dressed for working out I can sneak a work out in. I need to lose some weight to save my life. These kids got my blood pressure high 150/105.”

Not her grandkids, grandniece, or nephew. The ones who lost them to the system; her son-3, her husband’s niece -2. The one’s whose irresponsibility changed, for better or worse, her life.

To The People Who Came For Sandra Bullock In Regards to Her Fear For Her Son: No.

When you write a whole blog post to a white mother of a black child and try to minimize her fear for her child because she’s white you’re starting to hop over the fence into the territory of those you so desperately proclaim to be better than.

Sandra Bullock has every right to fear for her child as much as any black mother does. As much as any mother does. That’s what mothers do best, Fear. For which they then try to protect.

In fact isn’t it fair to say that the two fears aren’t really comparable? Her fear is not the same as ours, it’s a different type of fear because she only knows what the media says. What she’s seen in movies, watched on TV, heard on the radio. All of which serve as strong forces of silencing the voices of black people and their plight. So she can’t possibly know what all she has to fear. Or at least that’s the assumption that I make when I try to put myself in her shoes.

You seek to minimize the importance of her fear by saying oh she wasn’t raised with this fear, hasn’t watched this trauma and abuse first hand in her community, to her brothers, cousins, uncles, etc. As if that doesn’t add a different element that is in fact still; Fear.

Do you ever stop to think what it must be like to know that the world is setup against your child yet have no experience in it? No preparation?

Do we (this collective voice of people sitting behind screens spewing out 650 words anytime anyone else has something to say) not have any empathy?

Some of these posts only serve as more fodder to further skew the focus.

Aren’t we yelling and screaming saying that Black Lives Matter, in hopes that other people will understand that they do? Isn’t this child black?

253611FF00000578-0-image-a-61_1422710821731Does the fact that his mother is white cover him in the blood of White Jesus so that now he does not need to be covered in the blood of hashtags?

Roxane Gay says in Bad Feminist “We need to stop playing Privilege or Oppression Olympics because we’ll never get anywhere until we find more effective ways of talking through our difference. We should be able to say, “This is my truth,” and have the truth stand without a hundred voices clamoring, shouting, giving the impression that multiple truths cannot co-exist.”

Today I urge you to think before you fix your pen to say that someone can’t express their fear because their fear doesn’t look like yours.