I recognize that the title of this article makes the assumption that everyone cares about Black lives in this nation. It is evident, based on countless examples throughout history (past, present and of course the near future) that an ethic of care towards Black lives is somewhat of a miracle, since it rarely happens. I have struggled in my own life with the coy ways that white liberals reach out to me with questions about how best to support “the cause.” These same white liberals also turn their heads when you share a petition to support the arrest of the officers who murdered Breonna Taylor, or share a “crying” reaction emoji on Facebook when you post an article that yet another Black child has been murdered.
I remember when I discovered that Tamir Rice, a 12-year old Black boy in Cleveland, Ohio who was playing across the street from his house was murdered within seconds in broad daylight by police. The rationale: He had a toy gun in his hand, which of course the media narrative became: well why was he playing with a toy gun? When Tamir Rice was murdered on November 22, 2014, I was pregnant with my son. At the time, I did not know I was having a boy, however, I sensed something within my womb and in my soul that I could not name. My heart ached for his mother, Samaria Rice, whose eyes pierced my consciousness, forcing me to ask myself the question: What will you do in your own life to ensure that another Black boy does not die at the hands of police before experiencing puberty?
I have never gotten over the death of Tamir Rice, Breonna Taylor, Trayvon Martin, George Floyd, Aiyana Stanley-Jones, Roxanne Moore, Jordan Davis, Korryn Gaines, etc. There is always an etc. in this nation when it comes to the murder of Black lives. As a result, my attachment to the United States is liminal, fleeting even at times, as I struggle with the very notion that I have to assert that my life and the lives of my children, my partner, my family and friends matter. There is no humanity in that assertion. Rather, it is a reminder of the perpetual need for Black folx to assert that, “I too, am America.” And it is no secret that the hands of Black and Indigenous folx built this country from the ground up, tilling the land and picking the cotton. Raising white people’s children while our own were sold into slavery. Navigating Jim Crow, segregation, “integration” and now the