I am sitting here again, perplexed…
At dinner this past weekend, Brian and I were sharing our thoughts about current events and politics, and somewhere along the conversation, Brian said something to the tune of how he feels threatened when he sees the American flag. I repeated the word “threatened,” thinking about his word choice and what words accurately describe my feelings when I see the flag. He began to elaborate— “…like if I had to go to someone’s house and see the American flag in their yard, I wouldn’t feel safe. It would make me question if they are some type of way.” And I shook my head in understanding and agreement because every time I see an American flag hoisted off someone’s porch, I do not get warm fuzzy feelings of freedom, love, and respect from the symbol of patriotism either. If anything, at best, I am side-eying, inwardly questioning why they want such a personal association. And though I do not think I have ever had to knock on the door of a home resident with a waving flag, if I did have to, I do not know if I would for many valid reasons.
Because patriotism and inhumanity have been so disgustingly connected in America, so, for some of us, a connection to the allegiance of America’s flag is broken and triggering—PTSD-ish from slavery, Jim Crow, redlining, and over seventy million people voting a president in office touting Make America Great Again (bruh, it’s always been great for you, which one of those times periods are you trying to take Black people back to).
And when I watched the video footage of Sonya Massey earlier today, I thought back to the conversation over dinner about the American flag. Because here in America, Sonya Massey is not an uncommon tragedy. I still have the turquoise Vanity Fair issue with an ethereal Breonna Taylor on the cover sitting on the corner of my desk.
Sonya called the police for help, and her first words when the police showed up at her door were, “Please don’t hurt me.” The response was, “Why would I hurt you? You called us.” But then Deputy Sean Grayson murdered her in her kitchen, blew off the thought of any humane medical attention, called her a crazy b*tch, and did it all with no remorse. That is the part that kindles the rage inside me—the lack of remorse, the second nature inhumanity, the ease of his inhumanity.
And so, I think of the words of the iconic Black people fighting inequality and injustices decades before my existence. Like Ms. Nina Simone singing, “You give me second-class houses and second-class schools. Do you think that all colored folks are just second-class fools? Mr. Backlash…” Or when Nina Simone was asked, “What does freedom mean to you? Her response,
“I’ll tell you what freedom is to me. No fear.
Her response makes watching that police officer’s body cam playback even more heart aching because when Sonya ducked and said “I’m sorry” with that gun pointed at her and a white man yelling that he would shoot her in her face—fear. There is no freedom.
I move from Nina Simone and listen to CeCe Winans sing Come, Jesus, Come; that is where I have to put my mind for now.
Sometimes, I fall to my knees and pray, come, Jesus, come, let today be the day. Sometimes, I feel like I’m gonna break, but I’m holding on to a hope that won’t fade. Come, Jesus, come, we’ve been waiting so long for the day you return to heal every hurt and right every wrong. We need you right now, so come and turn this around. Deep down, I know this world isn’t home. Come, Jesus, come.
RIP Sonya Massey.
