Writing Through the Fog

Project 365, Day 105/365

Today (your yesterday), I got through most of the day in a fog. Emotionally, I felt dragged through the mud, and like there was a heavy boot on my face. Every time I thought of Daunte Wright, the 20-year-old black man who died for nothing more than a traffic stop, I thought of my Charles. That could be him. That could always be him. It’s always where my head goes when these things happen. Just this weekend, we did an evening grocery pick up, and we drove by a group of young men hanging out around their cars, eating pizza. That’s all I saw.

But Charles, he saw the ATM they were standing by and went on to note that he could never, and would never, do that. “Why?” I asked him, clueless. He went on to explain that as a young black man, he didn’t have the privilege of just “being.” Standing in a parking lot at night, near an ATM, could only mean trouble to someone who wanted to see that. He drops little tidbits like this to me all the time, situations I would never have to think about for myself. How he has to question every move of his, no matter how mundane or everyday, in fear that someone might see him as a threat for just living in his own skin.

Going outside at night, in the back of our own dwelling, needs pause. What if a neighbor who doesn’t know us sees him, you know, in his own back yard, throwing away trash or taking out the recycling, and assumes the worst? I remember in the last year, us coming back from an evening stroll and spotting that a neighbor had left their car trunk completely open. This is Los Angeles…you don’t just get away with leaving your car trunk open overnight, so my first thought was, well…let’s close it. Charles stopped me, looked around, told me to stand nearby as he audibly walked through what he was doing…while I recorded him on my phone. It sounds drastic, but if you’ve never had to live with the weight of automatic guilt on your shoulders just for the color skin you’re cloaked in, it’s hard to understand.

My spectacular, thoughtful, sweet Charles, who saves every spider we come across in our house (something he did even tonight), this gentle soul I’m lucky enough to somehow get to call my husband, he has to move through life with the preciseness of a neurosurgeon. And even then, that might not be enough one day. This is why I feel so heavy, so angry, so sad, so enraged, so scared every single time I hear another story like that of Daunte Wright.

I don’t know how to currently channel what I’m feeling. Yes, people share on Instagram how to help Daunte’s family, and who to call to demand justice, but right now, I’m just going to sit in it. Not forget it. Not move on. It’s so easy to do that. It’s so easy to be expected to show up to work and smile and chuckle your way through meetings and place importance on to-do lists when your heart is heavy yet again for yet another tragedy, all while crossing every appendage I have in the hope that I’ll never have to know the real pain like those close to the victims. It’s so senseless, and so deeply rooted, how do we fix this? What can I do to attempt to make the world a safer place for my children, my husband, my grandchildren? I don’t know.

Sorry, I really didn’t intend to go this route today, but a heavy heart writes heavy words sometimes.

That’s all I really have right now. I’m going to attempt to sit, meditate to find peace, and then go hug my Charles tight.

See you tomorrow, friends.