Injustice In The Face of Indifference
After moving to Minneapolis just a few months ago, I’ve spent every day seeing images of George Floyd—his name, murals of his face, and spray painted silhouettes that I feel like I can see with my eyes closed. And now, less than a year after his tragic murder, during the third week of the Chauvin trial, we are facing yet another Black man’s life being taken away at the hands of police… Daunte Wright’s life was taken away less than ten miles away from my home.
The morning after the news broke, I walked out of my apartment to buildings being boarded up, for the third time—in preparation for the conclusion of the election, and at the beginning of the Chauvin trial. The Twin Cities were put on a 7:00 pm curfew later that day, and the National Guard was called. I can’t help but feel hopeless, that we, as a country, seem to care more about halting a movement, than we do about taking a life. On my way home from work, I stopped at a red light, with a police car on my left and the National Guard to my right, and couldn’t help but feel my chest tighten and my eyes begin to fill with tears. All I could think about was how life can change in an instant—for having your hands in your pockets, for going on a run, for sleeping. Even more personally, I thought about how my brother fits a similar description as Daunte Wright—a 22 year old biracial male. The anger and sadness that have consumed my mind in the last week seems insurmountable. I don’t even think I know how to process this in the right way…
How does my sister explain to my nephew that the world will always categorize him as a Black male, and criminalize him for anything? How does she teach him to mind his tone, his mannerisms and his speech in attempt to protect his precious life.
Almost two days later, one of my childhood friends reached out and told me to check out an episode of his podcast that he and his brother recently name-dropped me in. Coincidentally, the episode that they recorded two weeks ago covered a range of topics that impacted their mental health—from the male, and greater family perspective. It’s an informal, but purposeful conversation about the reality of being a Black-assuming biracial person in America, and mental health struggles associated with racism and unjust systems. Things I didn’t even know that either one of them dealt with when we were younger. (Trigger warning for anyone dealing with mental health issues, including suicide.) But it made me realize how much of an impact an inadequate healthcare system and underlying, if not blatant, racism can change the track on an entire family and how prevalent mental health disparities are in the BIPOC communities are… In an instant, everything can change, but all of our collective choices determine the outcome. Are you choosing love or hate? Because it could make all the difference.