Hope is Our Superpower: A Realization of a Black Woman During the Pandemic

“If there is breaking news on CNN that these damn giant “murder hornets” are only drawn to Black folks, I’m done.  I swear, ya’ll, I’m so done!”  I waved my hands with each syllable as I said it to emphasize my point, as I always do when I’m amped.  I watched my six friends whose faces were spread across my computer screen – three squares across and two squares down – fall out laughing (some with cocktails in their hands) as we chatted on one of our weekly Zoom calls.

But I was only half-joking.  It was starting to feel as if Black people were forsaken.  We were getting coronavirus at rates higher than any group; dying from the virus at rates higher than any group; and losing jobs at rates higher than any group.  Everybody was experiencing bad times, but Black people were experiencing worse times.  Yet, in our way, we were marching on with our “keep on keeping on” spirit.  Instead of becoming disheartened by the bleak numbers, Black folks only seemed to be heartened: we instituted our own social media campaigns to distribute information and created our own methods to ensure that we were keeping safe and advocating for our health.  It is almost a reflex in us: to fill-in when others have left us out.  We have an innate belief that internally we can fix what’s broken; that there are better days ahead.

However this strong spirit that makes most Black folks feel capable of handling the coronavirus, can sometimes still fade in the battle against the virus of racism.  The week that Black folks were confronted with the murders of Ahmaud and Breonna, we stopped “keeping on”, felt how sore our backs were from carrying the weight of Blackness in America, felt every blister on our feet, and could now see the bigness of the boulders along our journey.  You could feel the collective, heavy sigh; the abrupt pause in our persistent perseverance.

But  even those moments are always just a pause: a moment to lay down our burdens, catch our breath, and have a glass of water until we continue our journey.  We keep on keeping on even when we are tired, and the journey seems impossible because of our inextinguishable hope.  “Hope” is our superpower.

When most would be stopped; we pause; then we persevere.  

When we were held in dungeons and then enslaved; we still did not stop.  Up to 1,000 male and 500 female Africans were shackled and crammed in the castle’s dark dungeons, without water or toilet facilities.  They ate, slept and relieved themselves in the same place.  The primary purpose was to break the spirit of the Africans.  60 million ultimately died; but for those who survived – their spirits only strengthened.

The same purpose – the purpose of breaking the Black man’s spirit – was behind public whippings; the breaking apart of families (whether it be through the slave trade or the rules of public housing); public hangings (actual ones from trees, organizational ones like Kaepernick, or societal ones like the shootings of Trayvon and Ahmaud); and the constant media degradation through news coverage of the worst parts of our society and the negative depictions of us in film and music. Yet our spirits are only strengthened.

Remarkably, our hope doesn’t just drive us but drives all those around us.  Those who try to break our spirits (perhaps unfairly) simultaneously are fed from it.  In every aspect of American history, we are the ones who provide the music – from spirituals in the 1,500s to D-Nice today – people are attracted to and soothed by our talent, our ability to sing and dance when others can barely crawl.  We provide the sermons, the words of encouragement: from DuBois, to King, to Obama being chosen to deliver the National Commencement address (even though he is not the sitting president).  People are drawn to us.  We lead.  We comfort.  We inspire.  

We are remarkable people; and remarkably we are still hopeful.  Our hope and our spirits are bulletproof.  We keep on keeping on.  “Hope” is our superpower.