Dear Cops, Just Admit You Love Shooting Black Men To Death
Admission is the first step to recovery
It’s been a rough few weeks. The subject of gun violence once again dominates the conversation as young warriors have taken to the streets to express their disgust at tone-deaf leaders like Rick Santorum — who seems to think that learning the basics of CPR is a better approach — when it comes to handling the unsettling notion of school drills and armed teachers.
It’s incredibly encouraging to see young minds being shaped into political vocalists who are grooming themselves for stations that will surely steer this great nation back to the path that somehow got blocked — by the chaos and mayhem of potent ignorance.
Despite the growing fog of disarray that floats over Trump’s diseased administration — the one constant that remains is the consistent tradition of Black men being gunned down in the already blood-soaked streets of a country that they built — and yet can’t ever freely dwell without the visible bullseye on their backs.
Stephon Clark was pummeled with twenty bullets in the darkness that shaped him like the criminal he was born to portray — and now Alton Sterling’s killers have been allowed to roam the streets — in search for more Black bodies to torture and kill.
Cops need to just admit their pleasurable addiction when it comes to shooting Black men to death — because that’s at least the first step to recovery — if that’s even a consideration.
There seems to be an ease to pulling the trigger multiple times that is both disturbing and utterly offensive especially when that level of brutality wouldn’t even be assigned to a rabid dog — charging with a foaming mouth and crazy eyes. If cops were faced with such a dilemma — there would be protocol in place to ensure that every possible option is exhausted before violence is initiated.
But — somehow when it comes to Black people — all bets are off.
Black women can be pulled over and forcefully thrown out of their vehicles — slammed into the cold concrete — and then tossed like garbage into waiting cars that deposit them into cells — where they’re found dead — days later.
Black children can’t even play in a park with a toy gun without threatening grown ass men — who troll them from afar — and then pretend that the distance is close enough to warrant protection from the Black boy — that just wants to play a little longer. But alas! There will be no more playtimes in his future because he chose the wrong color for a future that will never be his.
Black men can’t take a leisurely drive with their loved ones and even worse their babies aren’t spared the nightmare of watching gun shots blast through the chest or the splatter on the dashboard. The dying groans of the man that was supposed to be the father who would take them to school dances is the sound that will never get out of their head.
Black men can’t roam in the dark. They can’t drive in the dark. They can’t stand in the dark. They can’t enter neighborhood joints in the daytime. They can’t be imperfect. They can’t carry guns. They can’t look Black. They can’t be men. They can’t be Black. They can’t be human. They can’t be hopeful. They can’t owe money. They can’t give money. They can’t accept shit.
What can they do?
They can be pissed as fuck. They can fight back. They can hate as much as they wanna hate. They can be unapologetically Black. They can be Blacker in the darkness. They can be proudly Black in the daylight. They can fuck up whatever they want to fuck up. They can be tired as fuck of fighting assholes in uniforms who only recognize the freedom to be legally inhumane.
Shooting Black men is fun. The best part is watching the bullets hit with fury and then the final countdown — when the Black bodies hit the ground and the blood flows on cue — as you stand there and watch while you wipe away the red dots from your fucking badge.
Shooting Black men is normal. There’s nothing weird about hunting them down and then unleashing — as if the war against them will end when they stop breathing. But — like any addiction — the more you give in — the more you need that rush. The power of wrestling Black bodies to the ground and then kneeling on their chest until it’s crushed doesn’t quite cut it.
You have to pump those bullets into Black bodies until the Black and the red are a messy pulp of victory.
Admit it. You love shooting Black men to death. It’s fun. And the best part is that you get to do it again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and…