The Only Thing Horrifying About The “Dash Cam” Is That It Needs To Be “Horrifying” Enough For Us To Be Horrified
Warning: I’m mad as fuck
By “Us” — I really mean YOU.
Yes, you, the people who parade around as humans, but you’re really the utter scum of the earth. You’re like the gum that gets stuck at the back of my shoe. You’re like the cloud that follows me around as I watch the sun fight for my survival and lose. You’re the piece of shit that somehow escapes the bowl and stains the wall. You’re like the sound that burrows through the wall just as I’m about to dig into some delicious whatever. You’re the buzzkill that makes a much anticipated hot shower stall at cold or the doctor’s appointment that was supposed to last an hour, but stretches longer than that — because the growth turned out to be more than just mass that needs to be zapped without consequences.
You, America make me sick to my stomach.
The rage inside me give my fingertips the required lubricant to feel my way through the lightening that strikes in my skull — as I try with all my might to comprehend how we got here.
I mean, of course I know how we got to this disastrous place — but the good in me needs to plot the beginning of the end. It started with Black people being regarded and treated like things that need to be shuffled around for the benefit of White people who always need to believe in themselves.
Everything is revolved and centered around their well-being. How do they thrive without the resources that would make their coats longer and gems shinier? Well, that’s easy! Hope on over to the continent that is secured with all your needs and pretend to care so much that you’re willing to patiently teach them how to be civilized — by shitting all over their primal interface.
Of course the quest for power and might didn’t end there. But, there is no need to puncture old wounds because the old blood will mix with the new blood — and that will only create a virus that might never be contained.
Oh wait! That’s already happening!
The diseased mistreatment of Blacks at the feeble hands of Whites has become this nation’s endearing past time. And with excellent access to the bloody sport — we can conclude that there is plenty to gawk at with little or no restrictions.
When Philando Castile was brutally murdered — in his car and in the presence of his girlfriend and her toddler daughter — the headlines, images and accompanying video revealed the pompous audacity of the police officer as he wasted little time preparing for his next kill.
It was a vile representation of what we can now describe as America’s Greatest moment. The need to be “Great Again” echoes in the way that we hover over for the “sound effects” and then distantly admire the chill of the moments when a human being is riddled with the proof — that his existence in the country of his birth in no way rivals a stray dog.
A rabid dog, dripping in foam and charging with menacing fever would have survived the very same encounter.
The man who killed Castile in cold blood has been exonerated. Black people are pissed as fuck and White people basically don’t give a fuck. Or, maybe some of them do or act like they do, or say that they do or really do.
We really, really, really need White people to care.
I mean I write and write and write to the point of ridiculousness. Some may think I do it because I’m passionate, others might conclude that the climate is festive for “race writers” and so why shouldn’t I milk that shit, you may decide that I’m on a mission to help White people understand why Black people are so incensed with their current disposition.
I’ve been asked to distribute my wealth of knowledge about what it means to be Black in America, and each time I wonder why the fuck I would do such a thing. I don’t have a clue what it means to be Black in America because I’m just realizing what it truly means to be Black in America.
And what I’ve discovered has rearranged my entire template in ways that can never be reversed. I’m realizing that the so-called human beings who make other human beings seem less than — are actually not even human.
They don’t possess the sensors that radiate whenever you hear screams for help or witness the violent demise of a spirit — unsettled by senseless violence.
They need more, more, more in order to adequately process the sheer horror unfolding before their very eyes. It’s never enough. Never loud enough. Bloody enough. Dark enough. Light enough. Young enough.
Horrific dash cam showing Philando Castile’s last moments isn’t horrifying enough.
I watched it the way I imagine Trump’s Americans watched it. And yes, I felt nothing. It was all so distant and filtered — except the part where the child runs out of the car and into the hands of her captors.
That’s when I broke and I owned the fact that the media is an organizational shithole that peddles around Black pain to the highest bidder.
The death on film isn’t a horror show — it’s just the “recently added” slot in an entertainment library that is getting larger to accommodate more varieties to suit a very hungry and selfish audience.
Don’t be horrified. Stay hungry — because when it all runs out — only your blood will be on the menu.