Potential Widowhood

There is something to be said for being  married, being alive with someone and being able to build with them. This is especially true in the age in which we live now:  nothing seems to be valued if it cannot be digitally discharged, uploaded or up for public debate or consumption.

We are now living in the age of a renewal, resurgence even, of black love in the age of Black Lives Matter. In the midst of a tyrant rising to power by kakistocratic means, we have decided as a people, once more and again, to hang on to each other. Each other. Which makes the murder of Walter Scott that much more terrifying.

Will Smith said the VIOLENCE isn’t new, the cameras are new. I completely agree. There was a time these instances were whispered about around dinners, morning coffees, and after children went to bed. It was told to little black children to arm them, protect them from the cruel reality that their skin was a weapon and an insult to whiteness.

Walter Scott was a father, a son, a brother. A thread in the fabric of the tapestry of his family. Ofr. Slager ‘feared for his life’ as Walter was running from him and put five bullets into his back. Five.

As. He. Ran. Away.

On camera. On. Camera.

As of the date of this publishing, the jury voted 11:1 to convict. Eleven people saw what he did was wrong and wanted justice served for the Scott family. One person “couldn’t bring himself to rule that an officer could do such a thing.”

As a wife, as a wife of a black man, that petrifies me. It causes me sleepless nights, to watch my husband when we go places, become hypervigilant of him with our children. It has changed everything I do with him. I can only liken this to the fear my foremothers had when lynching were law and plentious as harvests. This fear, this terror that grips you, claws at you, when you give it attention, and recoils in laughter at your lack of sleep. I fear for the life of the man I want to spend the rest of my life with.

I fear for him, because he holds a portion of my destiny. I fear for him, because I know what love and power he houses. I fear if this were to happen to him, he will become nebulous and dreamlike, and like Jesse Williams said:  “discarded like rinds of strange fruit.”

I fear for him, fear for them, fear for us,  because the world does not mourn black men.

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