Between Rage and Mourning

As my heart weeps for the unarmed man, a Black man who was shot 5 times in the back by a White police officer.

One a father to be, and the other a father of four.

How could this have escalated from a broken tail light?

I don’t want to believe that a police officer would do this, but my eyes, our eyes can not deceive us.

Where do we begin to unravel this form of violence?

Why shoot at him 8 times?

Why not shoot him in the legs?

How far back should I go to try to understand this?

Do I shrug this off as a generational effect of the enslavement of my people?

Or do I see this as a form of terror, a misguided, unaltered negative by product of capitalist patriarchy?

Or do I just see this as a common case of the bad apple?

And what do I make of the other police officer who was Black and his involvement?

 

This is not the country I have tried to love, to be in, to live in.

I feel both rage and mourning.

Just can’t catch my breath, cause I know when it is caught

it, my breath, will have to be caught again.

To know that such hatred and mistrust exists

To see a form of impulsive hatred realized, to witness its birth–on film.

Crying and between my tears, screaming at the same time.

 

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