This is an essay supposedly about the importance of Black rage for Jordan Davis and other Black children and all I can feel is this soul-numbing sadness. I have become an ostrich in regards to court cases involving Black children: I stubbornly refuse to read any articles or to acquaint myself with the circumstances until the sands of time have run out and the verdict has been reached. So while most of America formulated their opinion months ago, I procrastinated.
Catching up on the news this week rendered me hopeless. My hands are as empty as the space at the Davis family’s dinner table. My thoughts scatter like buckshot every time I attempt to wrap my mind around the idea that someone can shoot you in a car, cause your death, and theoretically not be punished for that specific crime. Most days I can find the nuance in seemingly gray areas–but this is black and white. Racism.
Jordan Davis was a unique Black boy but I feel déjà vu looping me into a cyclical nightmare. My heart has been here before.
And it’s only a matter of time before we are here yet again. Because racists will keep killing our children as long as they believe it is their right to do so. As they have always done. And wading in a river of sadness will never do any permanent good. I have a feeling that those who hate my people would love nothing more than to watch us drown our sorrows in a chorus of “We Shall Overcome,” while the someday we await never happens.
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dara t. mathis 