Things have been quiet. On FaceBook, even my most “Change the World, We Shall Overcome, revolutionary-type” friends have been posting pictures of their kid’s accomplishments, nights’ out with friends, and even a little food porn; instead of posting about the beating of a Black UVA student by ABC agents, the killing of the unarmed bi-polar Black man, Anthony Hill, in the Atlanta area, or the racist chant the University of Oklahoma’s chapter of Sigma Alpha Epsilon. I’ve enjoyed the twaddle; but, it’s abnormal. It’s quiet.

 

My phone isn’t ringing either—not with the same types of calls. Typically, one of the regulars will call nightly. Separated by many miles, we will cook dinner, drink a glass of wine and share. I know what they would say:

 

 martesejohnsonblack-uva-student-beaten-cops-fake-ID

 

 23atlanta-web02-articleLarge

 

 19920323

The only other thing that shocked me was when that fool Joe Scarborough and one of his cronies tried to blame rap music for the frat boys’ behavior. Really? Please, please, please tell me the song where they talk about hanging Niggers?  Is there a remix? 

 

Seriously, I’m beginning to wonder if it is possible for a White person to be held accountable for any wrongdoings against a Black person? If we bring up slavery, we are living in the past? If we bring up an issue of discrimination in the work place, we are too sensitive or conveniently using the race card; if there is an issue with a police officer there is never enough evidence to prove a wrong doing.

 

I have a roadmap for how these calls would have gone because there have been countless of them. With Verizon, dirty martinis and various bottles of red wine my friends and me have navigated the nuances going to school, having a career and raising children as Black women. We usually talk about these things to provide each other with tips on how to best handle situations. We also are there to catch each other’s tears when things, usually when it’s involving one of our kids, hurt a bit too much.

 

But, lately it’s been quiet. I think it’s been quiet because after you have talked and talked, cried, protested, posted, and marched; but still the stories come, and come and come, you are shocked into a silent mourning.

 

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *