Two months ago, following the shooting of Jacob Blake, I received a message from a black man. His message was raw, honest, and expressive. It described the experiences of a black man, who couldn’t shake his fear of being shot by the hands of police and the innocence of his black skin. It took me a few deep breaths and several moments of silence to realize that his words were truth that had been trapped for so long. It became clear that choices and actions some are privileged to think less of, he now has to think twice about in order to make it home to his wife. I cried for him. I cried for what he shared. I cried for how he is learning to shrink to adjust. I cried that he has to exist this way.
I realized that I can never fully understand all of what he shared in his message, but that I could offer validation, empathy, and compassion. I reached out to him with these words:
Thank you for sharing your vulnerability, your emotions, and your rawness. As we know, black men are often times not given spaces to freely share themselves and are ostracized for displaying strong emotions. I commend you for being soft, yet so bold. As a black woman, I cannot say I understand exactly all of what you're experiencing, and I’m learning that I’m not supposed to. As we both know, our black experiences are different. However, I share your pain, your grief, your anger, and your helplessness. I’ve sat with these emotions for a while now, and I’m unsure of where to let them live outside me. I have not yet found the courage, or better yet, the trust to give others access to these emotions for fear that they will either mishandle, mislabel, or demonize it. The same way they time and time again mishandle something as fragile as a black body. I now realize that I sat with these emotions for so long because of the ownership and identity I gave them. In some weird way, owning my emotions gives a sense of control of what they become or how they show up. In fact, this is not the case. They are finding ways to spill over in uncharted territories, and I am exhausted owning and identifying with them. I am exhausted by expectations to compartmentalize and conceal these emotions in order to be functional. It is fatiguing. It is numbing. It is suppressing.
I am moved by your strength to fight this fight every day, and to fight for our people. My strength and efforts don’t feel enough when responding in moments like these. It feels incomparable to what we are living, and the hopelessness that so frequently hovers over us. I think of the times I rallied, protested, advocated and prayed but it does not feel enough. I struggle with this lingering thought that “there’s so much more I can do,” but not realizing that this is a type of conditioning to see ourselves as both the problem and the solution. Here you are, a black man, sharing your story, making room for self and others, and amplifying the voices of those around you to find a solution for something your body has no business being a target for. It is unfair to expect someone to be both full and empty at the same time. It is unfair to be both heavy and hopeful at the same time. It is contending. It is demanding. It is unresolving
I am reminded of the caged bird, full of song and dare to “claim the sky.” For me, the beauty of the bird’s freedom is not his leaps in the sky, but his ability to see through his bar of rage to sing. Fearful and all, the caged bird knows the song of freedom. Today, I draw on our shared emotions to offer visibility and validation. I offer this in hopes that what makes us visible becomes the song to carry us beyond our fear, pain, and anger. I am now learning that there is something divine in our shared experiences. It validates our existence. It validates our being. It validates our life.
Black men, you are not alone.
Black men, your living is not in vain.
Black men, your life expands the bondage of fear.
Black men, you have heights to fly, songs to sing, purpose to fulfill.
-A black woman, who is unlearning to learn
By: Magdaline Luolay Biawogei
