Deep into the night, while roads cleared, sirens blew, the unhoused wonder; as the sun begins to shine elsewhere, and our moon herald’s darkness, you’ll hear the laughter of the survivors. For just one, maybe two moments, they’ve forgotten the cold night of nightmares that awaits all who dare to want the simplicity of dreams. That horrid night filled with little girls stolen from life, the un-conceivable place where people convicted of caught-on-tape murder, is as surprising as winning the lottery.
They sit and sway to the music of today and yesteryear, laughing from deep bellies, and shed tears of disbelief. Seldom is said about this long night and the horrors which await; maybe it’s the surety, even when the sun rises, morning hasn’t come. Away from phones, in each other embrace, in between the crunch of taco shells, they sit around and contemplate: “what is joy in a joyless world?” “What is morality in a barren land unmoved by the death it causes? Around the thickness of their love and jubilance hangs a heavy smog, saturating the air, slowing choking out all laughter.
The moment is now gone; they’ve remembered how truly depraved their nation is. One must be sure; they’ve never forgotten, only momentarily avoided that lingering thought, burdening every move: “am I next?”
Underneath them, and the air lingers a heaviness so articulated throughout the blues of Bessie Smith or Billie Holiday. There must be laughter, or moaning, or hums, for, in silence, they’ll hear the silence surrounding them. Are they the only ones who know? Are they the only ones who know the price America pays for its “democracy” is the communion of their flesh and blood? How else does America defend its bastardly institutions but destroy Black lives and force the destroyed to clean up the remnants? Without violence to Black people, America couldn’t claim to be the redeemer nation.
When a Black girl is murdered by police — whom she called for help, not execution — the institutions decide how much to care, and it’s always very little. People will demand a somber protest, safety for property, peace in the same streets where this little girl’s lifeless body still lays. We, the survivors, are left to hear how, with legislation and constructive dialogue, we can prevent the already sky-high pile of beautiful Black lives stacked toward heaven from getting any higher. Even though we know — like the earth knows it will be daily betrayed — nothing will prevent the murder of Black children in America so long as it exists.
Each sprayed bullet and dishonest dialogue kill me, too; strips away the vestiges of resilience and fortitude for which I depend. So much so, I fear, when the undertaker prepares my body, they’ll see I’ve been dying a long time. Perhaps this is our greatest dilemma: loving and living life until we can’t; dying before death, wondering where Eden is. We are all dying before death, knowing exactly how to get to heavens door, for we’ve walked that way many times before.
