I've spent far too long hashtagging #blacklivesmatter with hushed responses. I've stood with homemade signs while chanting, "hands up, don't shoot!" I've seen videos of people who look like me, murdered, then posted and reposted. I'd now be lying if I said, "I've never seen someone die." I'd now be lying if I said, "all lives matter," because it's clear that mine does not.
Here's a small bit about myself. I grew up in the southern suburbs, I've traveled far and wide throughout my lifetime, I had a car when I was sixteen, I had both parents in the home, I could go to any college I pleased, I've never sought for any necessities. Oh, and one more. I am a black female, living in America -- where none of the above has mattered. I have and will always be treated as unequal.
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The sad fact about a black life is that no matter the amount of work that is put into that life, the outcome will remain the same from person to person: "He posed an imminent threat." I think you mean the pigment of his skin tone raised a few red flags in my brain which opted me to unsoundly assume that this person was undoubtedly up to no good.
Definition of a black life: one that is deemed unimportant within this nation's cultural disparity.
Definition of a criminal: a person who has committed a crime. Not a person who looks as though he or she may commit a crime. Not a person in possession of a weapon known to commit crimes. Not a person wearing a hoodie, failing to signal or celling CDs.
My black life matters because a hashtag is only as relevant as its readership, but I will always be black. If the hype wears off, if the marches stop, if distractions continue, I will relentlessly be a walking example of my ancestors.
My black life matters because when black people come together to (peacefully) fight for the war on our race, we are seen as a terror group, racist and, ironically, cop murderers.
My black life matters because if my name becomes the next hashtag, my white friends will no longer feel the dire need to advocate for all lives.
My black life matters because 'black' will always come with the package. In a crowd full of people, I won't be "the girl with the blue shirt." I will be "that black girl." Oh, and saying, "that pretty black girl" is not a compliment (we are not flattered).
My black life matters because our black roots are being stolen by the very people who have it out for our black lives.
My black life matters because I cannot remove my blackness each time I clock out for the day.
My black life matters because, for some reason, whenever I mention my black life, I make others uncomfortable.
My black life matters because the need for an article about "Why My Black Life Matters" is disturbingly necessary.
