My Black life matters.

I wonder what life would look like if Black lives TRULY mattered.

Growing up Black, I was made aware from early on that the color of my skin was a threat to humanity. Before you start talking about “why would your parents teach you that?”, please understand that they didn’t teach me their feelings about White people. My parents taught me the TRUTHS of the country I live in.

My parents taught me what school textbooks wouldn’t teach me. They grew up in Jim Crow America and heard stories of how their grandparents and grandparents were sharecroppers who picked cotton and tobacco in the hot Georgia sun. In turn, I heard stories quite frequently from my parents on how they protested and marched in their teenage and early adult years with Dr. Martin Luther King and others. They also told me WHY they protested. They were marching for equality because they were being treated unfairly (honestly, less than human) because of the color of their skin. I heard about how they were educated in all Black schools and how the Black schools were nowhere near as nice and as equipped as the White schools were. They told me how they couldn’t sleep in motels when traveling up North. They had to sleep in the car on the side of the road or in a parking lot, because motels were reserved for Whites.

My momma and daddy taught me about pay inequality as I got older. They told me stories of when they were both working in the finance industry and how they would be asked by their White counterparts how much they’d be making. They would never answer because they knew why they were being asked. They told me that they were telling me these experiences because they didn’t want me to be ignorant to the fact that this was life for them and that it would be life for me.

Being a Black woman in 2020, I’m starting to realize their words to be true. My momma and my daddy never asked to be treated that way. In their day, it was the LAW. It was required for Black people to be treatly inhumanely and with disrespect. Today, however, it is a CHOICE. There are laws that are in place, too. I want to be clear about that. But, in the day, more than ever, it is a CHOICE to treat Black people as inferior.

My parents chose to expose me to a well-rounded education and life overall. They took me to Broadway shows, operas, and museums. We traveled to other places other than the South and they allowed me to go on trips that would broaden the horizon of my thinking. I also did the fun kid stuff but I was the fun kid who could read sections from the Bible and the New York Times at 2 years old because my parents wanted to ensure that I had what it took to stand shoulder to shoulder with “the rest of them.”

Many of your reading may say, “wow, so sorry your parents raised you like this”, but let me explain something to you. My parents didn’t want to teach me that life was strawberry fields and daisies. They didn’t want me to feel as though life was a cakewalk with rainbows and unicorns. They wanted me to understand the value of hard work but they also wanted me to understand WHY I had and have to work so hard.

My Black life matters. White privilege, systemic racism, housing discrimination, implicit bias, redlining, misappropriation of Black talents and the like are not welcome at my door. I will fight for my life, with my very life, to protect the sanctity and dignity of my life and every other life that looks like mine. Black and beautiful. Black and proud. Black Girl Magic. Black Boy Joy. Making something out of nothing. Collards and neckbones. Fried fish and potato salad. Chit’lins and hog maws. Prayers and hymns. Spirituals and anthems. Tambourines and washboards. Organs and drums. Preachers and Prophets. Church mothers and church candy. Hats and ascots. Dope and degreed. HBCUs. Black educators, doctors, lawyers, counselors, scientists, astronauts, singers, actors, politicians, poets, writers, news anchors, artists, influencers...it all matters. WE ALL MATTER.

My Black Life Matters.