At first, I didn’t even recognize it because I have tried so hard to push past the pain, to revel in spring’s sunshine instead of the doldrums of the day. I’ve turned off the TV, refused to watch the videos, tried to ignore the social media commentary, yet it still caught up with me. It’s happening again.

George Floyd’s murder trial, Daunte Wright, Adam Toledo

Anguish as the dread in the pit of my stomach resurfaces

Unfathomable fear as I watch my black son, my literal heart outside my chest, navigate a world that views him, his innocence, his existence, his beautiful countenance marked by the brightest smile and the kindest heart, his pecan brown skin, as a threat

Tension as I repeatedly and desperately try to reconcile “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” for some but not for all in my country of birth

Despair because I don’t know how or when it will stop

Broken because I CANNOT bear witness to another black man or black man-child call out for his mother – for her love and her protection

I am worn. I am weary. I lament, profoundly struck by my grief, made heavier by the collective mourning of entire community of black and brown people

“In the wake of oppression, the powerful will ask the oppressed to choose “peace” [but] what they really mean is order. Peace requires justice.”

– Brittany Packnett