This has to be enough.
This blood has to be enough sacrifice.
This perpetuation of fear permeates the pores
dragging the soul from their soles
pushing the heart to the core.
How do I raise a child in this,
A child instantly inserted into adulthood
By the price of underlining danger?
How do I raise a city in this?
A city that refuses to acknowledge it’s past
To rectify the present in order to produce
How much blood will be enough?
Before the circumstances surrounding it become inconsequential
The details- minutiae-
All of it Minuscule
In comparison to the body of a child
The life-less body of a child
on the city street.
How do I raise myself in this?
How do I raise my neighbors in this?
How can I not wail?
How can I not wail at the force of fear
permeating my city?
It’s not just because it’s mere blocks from my home now. It’s not just because the contrast of this death sits so heavily as I show my friend from Portland this city I love, this city of contradictions. It’s not just because of anything… it’s because of all these things. It’s hearing the racism, intended or not, that is splintering my life, my family, my friends, my facebook feed. It’s the innate “waiting to hear the full story”- AS IF IT MATTERED- As IF there could be justification for another death. I’m angry now. All in my lily white glass house. I’m angry now. I’m seething with unplaced anger.
And if my white ass is this angry and sad and mad and confused and hurt and Angry… I can only imagine what is in store these next weeks and months… and I wail for my midwestern women that are telling their sons to be weary of the police, to not run- even for pleasure or exercise- because a boy of color running is a target today. I wail for the city that I have chosen to be home. I wail for the midwestern women who live in their suburban “safety”, and against their better judgement, against what they TRULY believe, are telling their sons and daughters to be weary of people that are different, be weary of going into this city. I wail for the disconnect that pushes our troubles into wards and districts and counties, as if the pain and the blood doesn’t pour over city lines, county lines, district lines.
I wail as only a Midwestern Woman can. With unmitigated pain and desire for better.
I wail for St. Louis.