Unless it is for necessity or to drink and forget my woes,
there are seldom times you will see me out and about.
The short story: I'm afraid for my life.
Before the death of Trayvon Martin,
I was very aware that police were prejudice.
I heard the tale of Rodney King.
I heard the whispers of Emmett Till.
I had never seen police brutality as a child, but I was as cautious of it as gang violence.
As a child, even though my father allowed me freedom and let me play with friends outside, my mother didn't trust our neighborhood and sheltered me.
[I should mention they were divorced to avoid confusion.]
Eventually she tried to get me to explore,
but she had spooked me enough without realizing it.
Or at least she realized it too late.
I don't know how,
but by the time I reached high school
I knew to separate myself from what I considered "niggerdom."
You don't have an exact idea for it either,
but everyone reading this knows exactly what I mean.
That's how ingrained racism is in our society.
Even though I still associated with all races in college,
I think I yearned to belong amongst my white classmates.
I knew better than to Uncle Tom it,
yet I felt safer around them.
I thought - perhaps I still do think -
if I'm around white people I can blend in.
I can secretly retain my black identity
but act like and interact with "them."
Then I'll be accepted.
Then I won't be targeted.
I've known for too long being black in "America" was dangerous.
For the past two years,
it seems like the number of black lives taken by cops has tripled.
Or perhaps the number was always this grim
and the light is finally being shed upon it.
However, the light being shed became over-saturation.
It's kind of like late at night you see the commercials
to feed starving children in Africa or battered animals.
You're aware of the tragedy, but because you keep seeing it,
you just accept it as "what can I do?"
even though the number is right in front of you.
[As an aside, if you feel the urge to help the animals
more than other human beings... Yeah, I judge you.
I understand your reasoning, but I still judge you.]
Over-saturation aside, the reality is still very real.
Black people are dying unnecessarily.
Police are responding radically to non-life threatening events.
I have been afraid of this for far too long.
Receiving the news that Freddie Gray was murdered in Baltimore,
a city I have learned to call home, does not help ease me.
The past week, I have refused to look into the case.
Lightning had struck to close to me, and I refused to look at the damage.
It was only after the protest that turned riot two days ago that I decided to look into it.
And by the way, from the mouths of my friends who were there:
the rioters were not the protesters; yes, two group of people they look the same
can exist in the same area. How bizarre is that?
But when I found out about the spinal injuries.
When I learned that he was born the same year as me.
It doesn't make me not want to leave my house any less.
My name is Charles G Clark.
I am a writer fortunate enough to make a living of freelance writing.
But I am scared shitless to walk out my door at any given moment
because I am a black man living in a dystopian world.
I hear there's another protest this coming weekend in Baltimore.
Who knows, if I can put my own issues aside, I'll go.
And if I do, I hope to see as many of you as possible
for a peaceful protest that can influence change.
Please.
Word.
