My daughter’s middle name is Harlem to honor to the people and the place that made me who I am. I write letters to her that I intend on sharing with her when she’s old enough. I call them Harlem Love Letters.
Dear Naomi,
I’m writing this because my heart is heavy. I want to be able to talk to you about why I’m sad but you’re just too young right now to understand. One day, when you’re old enough to read this, we can have a conversation about Black suffering. This week, another Black person was killed by police. It happened in Minneapolis, Minnesota. This man’s name is George Floyd.
I have not been paying attention to the news that much because I’ve been trying to focus on my schoolwork. But this week I took a break to peek at what’s going on in the world and I saw and image of the cop’s knee on George Floyd’s neck and lifelessness in his eyes. Just writing this makes me tear up. I know why this is happening—our lives are simply not valued. But as I sit and try to explain it to you in writing I’m actually at a loss for words.
I do not have the words that will make this better. As much I want to protect you from this world, I know that you’re going to have your moment. The moment when your eyes are opened to how the world sees you simply because you’re Black. I’ve had many moments. My first moment was the murder of Amadou Diallo. Nineteen shots. Four officers. Zero accountability. I was 9.
But the moment that stands out to me the most was when Trayvon Martin was put on trial for his own murder. That trial showed me that no matter what happens to us, in this country, it will be our fault.
Since Trayvon’s murder, there have been so many others. Killed by police, vigilantes, and regular white people trying to keep us in our place. They claim self-defense, they claim fear, they claim the victim was “reaching for my gun.” At this point, we know the script. There’s nothing we can do to make our deaths not our fault.
What can we do? I’m still thinking through this. I don’t have all the answers, but I know that I don’t want to become numb to Black suffering. I don’t want to take it for granted. I don’t want to share photos and videos of Black people being killed. On one hand, these images provide evidence of the abuse we endure. On the other hand, I wonder if we are becoming too accustomed to Black suffering and death. I wonder if we continue to share, will we forget that people were humans worthy of dignity before they were dead Black bodies. Before they were victims.
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I love looking at you—especially in the morning after a good night’s rest. You are so happy and smiley and joyful. No matter how tired I am, seeing you in the morning sends a burst of energy through my body and my soul. Your energy literally changes mine. I don’t want you to lose the power to shift the atmosphere. But I’m scared that exposure to all the suffering in the world will change you the way it changed me. I’m look forward to talking this through with you one day. I think I can learn a lot from you.
Love always,
Mommie