This is why I’m Angry
I’m angry because people seem surprised. Maybe not surprised. Shocked. People seem shocked. Why would you be shocked?
It’s difficult sometimes to put into words how we feel, isn’t it? Especially when there are cascading emotions pouring over us.
I’m there right now. Writing is therapy. So I write.
I’ve had a wave of different emotions over the past few days. But where I’ve landed today is this overwhelming feeling:
I’m angry.
I’m angry that Patrick Lyoya is dead. An immigrant, whose family fled violence in the Democratic Republic of Congo for the illusion of a safer life here, shot in the back of the head, lying on his stomach in a stranger’s front yard. Shot at point-blank range while a Grand Rapids police officer straddled his back.
Two miles from my home, where my wife and I raise our two young daughters.
But that’s not the only reason I’m angry.
It’s that we’ve been here before. So many freaking times.
I’m angry because people seem surprised. Maybe not surprised. Shocked. People seem shocked.
Why would you be shocked?
These must be comfortable rocks you’ve been living under.
I’m angry because, while so many are expressing shock and disbelief, people of color live with this every day.
This is our reality.
I’m angry that there is a part of me that never knows if I’m going to make it home at night when I leave in the morning. When I tell my daughters that “I’ll see you tonight”, am I making them a promise, or is that morning the last I’ll see them, like the morning Patrick Lyoya was killed? His two young children will never see him again.
Some people never have to think twice about that.
What if I get stopped by the police?
What if I don’t do everything right?
What if I look at the officer wrong?
What if the officer is in a bad mood?
What if that officer is one of those bad apples we always hear excuses about?
It’s always there.
I’m not saying all this to be dramatic. This is simply reality.
A reality that gets played out time and time again, this time in my city. This time, 2 miles from my house.
It just keeps getting closer.
A family member told me recently that I don’t have the luxury of holding onto anger about my experiences with racism. Instead, I should focus on writing about joy and hope. I get that. It’s just, that’s not the whole story.
I think I don’t have the luxury of never having to fear for my life every single day because of the color of my skin.
If that offends you, you aren’t paying attention.
I’m angry because I am not an activist. I don’t like writing about race relations. This is not my field of expertise. It’s not on me as a black man to make the world an easier place for white people to live in. It’s not my responsibility to prove to white folks that I belong.
Why should I have to teach white people how to be nice to black folks?
I’d love to talk about hope. To bring people joy.
But black people keep getting killed by white cops.
Am I supposed to stay silent?
Do I have that luxury?
I believe in the power of hope, of a better world for my kids. I have to. How could we live healthy lives if we choose misery every day?
I believe in the strength of humankind. The potential that we possess to make this world a better place is immeasurable.
We are far better together than we ever are divided.
We can do it. I know we can.
But first, we have to get angry. Our anger must outweigh our fears. Our anger must be pointed at the right targets. Our anger must push for change that ensures that everyone has the same rights to live peacefully and free of fear from excessive force from those who have sworn an oath to protect us.
Our lives matter. To me, it’s not that controversial, it isn’t a political stance. It’s a humanitarian stance. My daughters’ lives matter. My brothers’ lives, my sister’s life matter. Pro-life people should have no issue with that either. We matter. We deserve the same security when we leave our houses as any other citizen.
I’m angry that that is even remotely in dispute.
There are a wave of emotions I will feel over the next few days.
Right now, though, I’m angry.