I didn’t mean to start my blog today, or go live with the website. I was waiting until I could ready all the content and be quite impressive, really. This is important, so today it is.
Sunday, we all watched the aftermath of the killing of Mike Brown. Another unarmed young black guy, walking home. Killed by police, his body left lying in the street for ages, because I guess that’s how those cops roll. It didn’t seem strange to me that the people who lived there – who had to see their friend or family member or just that dude from up the block left on the asphalt – would be upset. Enraged, even. The anger seemed rational.
Last night, we all watched the police throwing tear gas and using rubber bullets and informing the few cameras in attendance to stop filming. And half of us watched it on Infowars, of all places. Why? Because that was at some points our only option. That was the media coverage. That and this one other guy who got an amazing live feed up for longer than anyone else. Otherwise, there was Twitter.
I’m not a journalist, I’m an author. I write about emotion and experience. More importantly, I write about things I have seen or felt. I try not to speak over people of color when issues of race are on the table, because I don’t bring much to that particular table. But I do know exhaustion, and weary grief at another unsustainable loss, and flashes of anger when something pushes you too far and you’ve had one too many indignities. That I understand. Not at all in the same way or to the same degree as the people in Ferguson, but there is empathy in marginalization, a common experience of nope, fuck this.
It occurred to me finally that my place was simply to use whatever platform I have. I’d prefer to leave the writing to people who know how to explain things properly.
And if you want to know what’s going on, go to Twitter and read #Ferguson.