27/05/2020
This human experience has always been frighteningly unpredictable. If you compounded this with the current time, throw in some race, and mix it together with class it becomes a bit hard to ... breathe.
And hasn’t breath become so important to us recently.
As a group of Black women, we cannot ignore our blackness and what that means to the world. Being black in the United States is a generational war. It’s some force looming over your shoulder, ready to seize everything you own. It’s discovering that your voice is your first weapon. For us, breath isn’t just a primal response to living, it’s a survival tactic.
Black people have always had issues with breathing (high rates of asthma, lung cancer, police brutality, being more likely to pass from Co-Vid19, the list is seemingly endless). This lack of adequate breath leaves us constantly on the verge of hyperventilating, endlessly processing those whose little breath have been snatched from them early.
We are always mourning.
In fact, we experience more frequent bereavement than our white counterparts (not surprising). We also maintain closer connections to our deceased and mourn more than just our immediate family. We function and feel as a collective.
And isn’t it hard knowing we can’t gather right now? Knowing for our safety we should stay in doors so there will be no funeral, there can be no large vigil, there can only be silence outside... and a mountain of social media alerts that do nothing
But
Emphasize
How
Much
We
Want
To
...
So in the isolation, in the silence, morne how you see fit. Morne the death and the loss of being able to express your feelings about it. Yell. Embrace the numbness that might wrap softly around you. Fall into that movie like it can save you. Call that family member you be thinking bout. Stand by a tree. Just be. Close your eyes an inhale ... think about this, the process of taking in that air, for a moment, forget what you’ll do with it, just let it fill you...and now exhale.