National Moment of Silence 14 August 2014 UC San Diego
Our vigil was organized quickly by a UC San Barbara student. We gathered at 1600 at Ché Café on the UC San Diego campus in La Jolla. The mood was somber; words weren’t enough. We were prodded to speak but an NBC camera was in the vicinity so we remained stoic. Two minutes of silence with a news camera in the room can seem like an eternity especially since the duration was filled with thoughts of narratives the press had already formulated about protesting for justice.
I show up to these vigils because of my personal unrest when tragedy strikes: What do I tell my babies? The echo chamber really never stops after you hear the first newscast. If the world is telling them they are nothing, how do I make them believe they are something? Who can tell me? There are millions of successful black mothers who have successful black children and, still, nothing but the echoes. Why are there echoes? Because black women are never asked to speak about their black sons, space is appropriated to black men as they are the ones who were victimized. But if we are all connected, and I would argue one cannot be more connected than mother and child, then why can’t a black man’s mother tell the story of her love?
The vigil was good for my soul. I got to be vociferous in the disappointment I felt about the false equivalencies of looting and taking a human life. I was loud about not wanting to be calm—this isn’t a time for calm—this is a time for demanding answers and nothing gets me through a day like a shot of adrenaline from legitimate fear and loathing. Nothing but loathing for a system of oppression that continues to give me a narrative about my existence that I know to be completely untrue. And fear of what that system has in store for my children. How do I love them through yet another dead black body—as we’re still not seen as people. How do I navigate them away from the idea that riot is not warranted in the loss of a life but totally worth it at a hockey game? When do you just hug them and when do you cry out to them that they are worth something? Why don’t we ever ask the mothers, the women who raised these brilliant children struck down in their prime, these questions? We all need to know the answers. Can we start a dialogue?
Yours In Justice,
Alicia
