All tagged black in America

Series: Why We Hate the Boys in Blue, Part III

Series: Why We Hate the Boys in Blue, Part III

SweetTee
Hashtag Black

“Tell me what has become of my rights? /Am I invisible because you ignore me?/ Your proclamation promised me free liberty?” – Michael Jackson, They Don’t Really Care About Us

 

 

 

[Over the past two days, I have shared with you the stories and feelings of five young people who have grown to fear, distrust or outright hate the police. They have told stories of discrimination, brutality and sexual assault. They have learned that “serve and protect” is more of a question than a promise for them. They, and so many others, are tired and angry about the way that police brutality and abuse of power has continued to terrorize people of colour. I’d like to share some thoughts on the matter. Here is part three of my three part series on police brutality.]

We're Mad Now: Why Social Media Activism Matters

We're Mad Now: Why Social Media Activism Matters

SweetTee
Hashtag Black

I was standing at the bathroom sink with my Lysol spray bottle in my hand when I first found out about the Zimmerman verdict. If I’d been cleaning instead of procrastinating on my Twitter timeline, I might have delayed the sick, sinking feeling I experienced when I learned that Zimmerman was found not guilty on all charges.  I might have delayed the way my hands shook as I read the tweets of outrage and disbelief. I might have delayed the chill that overtook my body as I saw Zimmerman smile when his attorneys congratulated him. But even if I’d stayed in the bathroom and scrubbed my sink until my hands turned raw, there was no way I could have avoided the news – George Zimmerman, the man who killed a young black kid, not much older than my little brother, was walking free. My heart bled (and still does) for the family of Trayvon Martin.

My immediate reaction was to call my mother, and she listened very quietly as I ranted and raved. Then I took to Twitter to rant and rave some more. I could barely contain my hurt and my anger, and the sympathetic tweets of my counterparts, white, black and otherwise were like fuel to a fire that burned in the pit of my soul. Another black life, gone down the drain, and not a soul was going to suffer for it. How could we not be mad? How could we not be hurt?