About a year ago — a 28-year-old woman with her whole life ahead of her — officially joined the realm of the walking dead.
Her name was Sandra Bland.
She became the victim of bad coordination and misconduct by a state trooper who decided that his whiteness surpassed any level of understanding or reason.
He pulled her over because of a traffic violation and three days later she was found dead in her cell.
They say it was a suicide — I say America killed her.
The practice of categorizing people of color as a group that automatically deserves the kind of treatment wild animals are shielded from is an act of insurrection that oddly remains a lawful endeavor — despite the body counts above and under the ground.
As an African-American woman with the option to move back to Nigeria whenever I decide to make that change — navigating between two chaotic climates is maddening.
It also makes me very angry.
Is it shitty to be a Black woman no matter were you’re at? Or am I overreacting? Perhaps I’m emotional due to the ongoing circumstances that remind us how dangerous it is to be Black in America.
I’m also bitter that I was brought up to believe the myth that plagued third world countries back in the day — when it was assumed that this country was like the Land of Oz.
Your dreams needed to be planted here in order for their branches to spring eternal.
That’s actually true. It was never a lie. The only part that sucks is the fact that not all of us are permitted to live long enough to claim our birthright.
Sandra Bland’s case haunted me a year ago and it tortures me even more today.
The two Black men that were murdered right after the July 4th holiday — doesn’t help to make Bland’s upcoming death anniversary any easier to muster.
The forecast is bleak when you check the temperature of race relations and there is no indication that the clouds will be parting any time soon.
Being an angry Black woman isn’t about the attitude or the lethal retorts. It’s not about finger snapping or the temper that is aimlessly directed at whoever is within view.
It’s about women like Diamond Reynolds who has to watch her boyfriend die while she tries to protect her toddler from a rogue cop who only sees them as collateral.
It’s about the blatant neglect that sometimes stems from our own community — that remarkably doubts our authenticity which makes it easier for others on the outside to devalue us.
It’s about the burden of knowing that your day could become the beginning of the end simply because you know your rights — and refuse to back down to an insecure individual who would rather kill you in order to avoid defeat.
It’s about being a Black woman surrounded by Black girls who have seen too much and know way more than they should.
It’s the anger and the dread of what that disposition is doing to you as you watch White people carry on in the country of their dreams.
Bitterness is an acid trip that keeps you crazy enough to wile out but sane enough to correlate the spreadsheets that land in your inbox every Monday morning at 10.
There is no rest for the weary. Even angry people have to toil for a living.
That part works for me. It’s the ability to stay alive that trips me out.
And when that happens — I get angry.