Why America’s Pleasure With Watching Black Pain Continues To Be The Preferred Currency
Get ready to pay up!
It began with the verdict that apparently gives a street thug with a badge of dishonor — lawful permission to patrol the corners of St. Paul, Minnesota in search of mayhem and chaos — in the form of Black bodies that are positioned to be struck by a hail of bullets.
This manner of death is strictly observed with casual superiority.
And now we learn that a pregnant Black woman was shot and killed in her home by police officers who responded on the basis that they were about to tackle a home invasion.
Her name was Charleena Lyles — a mentally-challenged thirty-year-old mother who called Seattle police because she feared that burglars were targeting her home. When the cops arrived — things took a turn for the worse like they always do — and she ended up being gunned down in the presence of her young children.
This story almost mirrors the fate of another young Black mother — Korryn Gaines who was also killed by police in her home as her children watched in horror.
The media depicted Gaines as militant in her stance against the cops that violently broke into her home with the intent to engage in a gun battle that resulted in her bloody demise.
Lyles suffered from years of mental illness, which might explain her agitated state — not to mention the fact that she was accommodating the mood swings of an expectant mother. She was tragically disposed of on the basis that she was recklessly wielding a knife — and therefore posed a major threat to a group of men armed for war.
The headlines are jarring in delivery — and yet subtly refined to the compartment that stores the log of injustice — that never runs out of room even when the warning signal loudly swats our senses into brief contemplation.
We pause for the moments that require the symbol of recognition, and proceed to attach the latest victims accordingly — as we customize our thoughts in order to guarantee the most exposure, which demands that the standard requirements be readily fulfilled.
Black people declare another loss while White people have the luxury of being able to leisurely weigh their options.
In the end there are no winners or losers since we all have front row tickets to the cinema of Black pain — and whether or not this never-ending fest fits your palette is insignificant — because it’s the only way you can truly encompass the definition of a true American.
It’s so gross to admit this, but Black pain is the preferred currency of a country that is held together by the foundations of human betrayal — and societal enhancement of lawlessness at the expense of those accused.
We’ve done a mighty fine job of finessing the unimaginable through excessive helpings of the glaring evidence — that proves beyond a doubt that we can stomach images of gushing blood from tattered remains of human bodies, we can stand the groans of dying men, the pleas from women that are about to die, we can handle the task of comprehending the terror of young children — absorbing the speed of bullets directed at their mothers, and we can share it all with empty compassion — as we plan our next post on Instagram in order to keep the page views from dipping below supervised regulations.
Our preferred status is the unwavering relationship between an America that kills its own and a version that is bloated with the gawking stares of those that have been acquitted of wrong doing — either by the courts of law or the plated membership of privilege.
The thrust of victimhood lobbies against the people with dark skin who stand out mostly at night instead of reasonably blending in.
During the day — the shadows of light provide a vacant shield against the forces of evil — that are decked out for needless punishment as the screams of those left behind provide the death anthem for the risen to serenade — as the newly minted souls deposit more dust in the fields of history.
White people are comfortable with this pain that stings with the sorrow of being thankfully helpless and godlessly blessed with the lightness of just being human without the strains of digging deeper for a level of contentment that saves breathless relatives — who never get to speak of their dead without silently howling.
No, this spirited disposition escapes them, and gladly so, as they reap the rewards of having the luxury of labor — mapped in defiance for future bait — while the tortured scorn the sun’s rays with over-ploughing and over-indulging the whips and chains — that rivaled the long-haired horses cowering against the ranks of stables.
White pain comes in the form of airy dandelions, using the air to float around like fairies that occasionally get stuck in transit, but ultimately are let loose when the handsome hands sweep in to steady the wind.
White women never have to wait long to be handled with care by their own, and even Black men have been programmed with the chip of diligence. They can’t help but honor this method of favoritism, because religion extols the daintiness and purity of White skin and cascading hair — matched with the simpleness of untainted goodness that can’t mix with dipped brushes of intoxication.
Black pain circles around the mindless pride of varied packs that streak colors ranging from the dunes of Morocco to the diamond nights of Ivory Coast. The hurt leaks through the pomade that livens the scalps of village girls — and the lashings permeate the threading of bulky parts — as the tresses disappear into the fold of haunted memories.
The sky is the same from ship to ship as individual tales spin for clouds as the water thrashes in and wipes away the bloody ankles to reveal wounds of the century.
Black pain blazed through the catch and release period — as reclaimed spirits worked overtime to patch up the quilt of guilt — as a world that once mocked and destroyed generations — provided the very same assistance in the form of legal enslavement. The unbearable scrutiny of just being human after barely removing the label that claimed otherwise was never meant to be achievable — even as the jesters rock the courts with sensationalized parodies — the anguish of traceable defeat continues to feed a callously bred population.
Black pain has become the only way to honor the humanness of Black America. It’s the best way to view how we are capable of tears, fears, and stately fragility. Without it — we are brutes in a civilized setting — as we bark our way through the tendencies of life. White empathy can handle Black pain as long as it never deviates from the norm. The media presents how we deserve it. We are Black and automatically vulnerable to the characteristics that made us so damn useful as household pets.
White people can be calm under pressure, and if they dare stray — they have the excuse of mental insufficiency to bail them out. Black people can’t be calm under pressure, and when we do stray — we don’t have any excuses to bail us out. Just death, hashtags and those left behind to suffer the rest of our unfinished sentences.
It always begins with a verdict and ends with a Black woman raging for her life and the sealed value of her soon to be motherless children. It always continues with memorials, testimonials, think pieces, comments, viral comments. commentators, retweets of commentators, communal grief, staged retaliation, White people reaching out, Black people receiving, White people punching through, Black people punching back, etc.
There are never enough of us to gather the storm because the paralyzing neurons that pulsate with tender fury — reduces our strenuous relations into a pulp of synchronized authority.
We are tired of being passed around and used as entry into privileged territory. Don’t watch us burn, bleed, scramble, and fall. Stop noting how the weight of us hits the ground, and refrain from judging the quality of the footage that captures how quickly the pavement changes color under duress.
Black pain is not affordable anymore. If you need it that badly you must pay and this time it’s really gonna cost you.