I Don’t Care About Dallas, Because I’m a Black Woman in America

The shooting deaths of five police officers who were targeted by a sniper with the dangerous agenda of killing as many White cops as possible is tragic.

But, I honestly don’t have the energy to give a damn.

As a Black woman — living in a country that considers my kind disposable — it’s really hard not to become consumed in the heightened situation that is getting even more fiery.

This week ends with the unnecessary deaths of two Black men at the hands of White men with badges who have been trained to kill us at will.

The videos that depict these acts of violence have been circulating rampantly — and as we feast our eyes and watch injustice unfolding — the anger wells up at the indignity being leveled on Black men.

But what about Black women and children?

We are in this too. We are being subjected to cruel and unnecessary punishment. We are also at risk of losing our lives because we dare to be little boys playing with toy guns or a little girl traveling in a car and eagerly anticipating the final destination.

Diamond Reynolds could easily be me.

I could be the Black woman trapped in a car with my dying boyfriend and a bewildered 4-year-old daughter with a crazed White police officer wielding his gun in our direction.

The audacity of this monster who just shot and killed someone in cold blood — to still have the nerve to pose a major threat to the two witnesses who are scared shitless and unarmed is unforgivable.

We can’t continue to ignore that we are in the early stages of the apocalypse.

There isn’t enough time or space for all of us and the emotions we dole out to each side as an act of humanity.

As a Black woman — I have no choice but to accept that my fate could mimic what Sandra Bland went through or the horrifying ordeal Diamond Reynolds was forced to endure.

A White woman will never have to watch her White boyfriend die after being senselessly shot by a cop — as that same gun points directly at her while her daughter silently watches from the backseat of the car.

It’s hard to remain cool, calm and collected under circumstances that reveal how little your life and the lives of the ones you love — really Matter.

But, I know better.

Our Lives Do Matter. And it’s time to make that known and if it takes a catastrophic episode to override the shitty laws of the land — then so be it.

When Black people suffer — it’s viewed as what we deserve as if it’s our birthright to be brutalized and mocked for it.

When others are torn down — the reception is somber and respectfully mournful.

I have a feeling that things are about to change. Until then I’m going to save my tears for tomorrow.

I’ve cried enough for today.