I gave notice to my job last week in pursuit of adventure aligned with who/where/how I am today. The “I quit my job to pursue __” stories excite me, but the thrill of that was met with the crashing waves of black bodies dismantled by those entrusted with a duty to protect us, again.
To quit, I reached out to my community. I was so eager to rush home and tell them, but I couldn’t find the words. My spirit was crushed. There were no words for me to express what I felt last week. I avoided writing to them until tonight.
Compelled, I used this bit to explain my delay:
I’m thrilled and wanted to write you sooner. Though, this week I’ve felt powerless.Writing to you with joy would have felt inauthentic. This week has been filled with pain. I am not a Black man, but today his/her/their experience imprints pain into my memory.As we coordinate for justice, I find myself asking
- How long must we agitate a system of government so visibly unresponsive to the pain of its people?
- How else must we challenge the legitimacy of its governance?
- How many unhealable gashes will be cut in our social fabric before we control this madness or rip it apart?This week has put a magnifying glass on the strikingly state of affairs in America. The lack of progress and increasing destruction of black & brown life has my friends worried for their own lives and leaves me teary eyed on a Sunday searching for way to express gratitude through pain.
First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Socialist.
Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Trade Unionist.
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.