Current Events, Nonfiction, Parenting, Race

Ferguson and Patience for the Appalled.

Photo: Twitter, from a #NMOS14 protest in Washington, DC

Photo: Twitter, from a #NMOS14 protest in Washington, DC

Be patient with those of us who are appalled. We thought we had been striding toward some progress, thought our education and integrity, our intellect and analysis were meaningful. We studied history, believed we understood all the ways in which enslavement could impact advancement. We were repairing our middling credit, paying back student loans, electing more people of color into political office. And yes, black blood still flowed in the streets and yes, each week new images of bullets bloodying children and grandmothers gunned down flickered across the six o’clock news. But we had been told to hope, had been assured that it took audacity, but it could be done. Optimism could be sustained. And weren’t we seeing justice sometimes? Weren’t more black students graduating college? Weren’t more of our men hitching up their pants and wearing ties? Weren’t we finally — finally — being legislatively mandated to become our brother’s keeper?

Forgive us for retiring “We Shall Overcome” for a while. Our president was black, and his attorney general had been tasked with tending to what was left of systemic inequity.  We overcame! Or at the very least, circa 2008, we felt fairly capable of overcoming.

https://twitter.com/ShaunKing/status/501220320377053184

Yes, even when we couldn’t catch cabs. Yes, even when we were stopped and frisked. Yes, even when a black Harvard historian was accused of breaking and entering into his front door. That was resolved with a beer summit, wasn’t it? Ain’t we some overcomers?

Pardon us for reeling in the wake of this latest reminder that we are still psychically, politically, horrifically, oppressed.

We watched a child bake on the asphalt on a middle American town last weekend, while the cop who killed him fled without calling in the murder or staying on the scene. And while sitting on our seat’s edge waiting for accountability, we had to reckon with the protracted dawning that no immediate responsibility would be assigned, that none of the shooting officer’s higher-ups — from his police chief to his governor — would feel the need to reprimand or hold him wholly responsible.

And while we were still reeling, while we were yet aghast, either time stood still as Ferguson Police teleported back to 1963 or time sped forward and we were all dumped into a near-future dystopia or, likeliest still, today is no different than the day of Mike Brown’s murder. Today is moving at the same predictable clip as every day that came before it.

Maybe black progress has only existed within a political Petri dish. Maybe it was merely another of the many experiments this country has conducted on people of color. Maybe the reason it doesn’t matter than children are being scraped off the pavement like dogs and babies are being tear-gassed and the best and brightest of the black literati are begging for their lives while standing before the barrels of Ferguson Police guns is because the Petri dish was secretly shattered, the quantifiable results of black process subsequently classified.

We will never know how many years or dead bodies or exceptional achievements it takes to convince a white supremacist culture to acknowledge the other 2/5 of our humanity.

Excuse us, as this is not easy to accept. When you ask why and how we could be so surprised, we are thinking of Obama’s first inauguration. We are thinking of our parents’ mortgage payments. We are wistfully recalling the Cosbys and thinking about how Dwayne Wayne really did end up running Kenishiwa in the end. Dreams come true, dammit. We are hearing echoes of Marian Anderson and Leontyne Price. We are tasting the water from every fountain where we’ve sipped, without having to bow our heads beneath a Coloreds Only sign. We are touching the bibles handed down from our great-grandparents gnarled hands to our smooth, desk-working ones. We are reciting the promises inside them. Those who are peacemakers will plant seeds of peace and reap a harvest of righteousnessBlessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted. Yea, though I walk through the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me. Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. 

You promised, we pray, as though we’ve been betrayed. You promised, we repeat, as though we may have been forsaken. But we’d forgotten that we are still walking and that the shadow of death may not look like a hospital bed at the end of a long, storied life, but instead like a city on lockdown, asphyxiating its citizens, imposing a curfew on all who seek justice, donning riot gear and rolling tanks simply to protect a police officer who murdered someone whose skin looked like our own.

(There is still time left, right, Lord? There’s still time, isn’t there, for You to redeem these dark times?)

Please. Please. Just be patient. We are making our way. But you must understand that it is hard, when we are cordoned on all sides by toxic clouds. Surely, you can empathize with how difficult it is to be clear-eyed while gagging on these cannisters of cover-ups.

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Appearances and Publications, Nonfiction

Stacia L. Brown on HuffPost Live! Sept. 7, 12:50 pm EST!

Apologies, friends. I’ve got to make a temporary departure from thoughtful, decently crafted posts to geek out for a moment.

I’M GONNA BE ON THE NEWLY LAUNCHED HUFFPOST LIVE TOMORROW!!!

excelsior!

Excuse the all caps, but this is pretty wild.

A little over two months ago, I wrote this. And this afternoon I got an email inviting me to discuss black mental health on HuffPost Live tomorrow, Sept. 7 at 12:50pm. It’s a twenty-minute segment, hosted by Marc Lamont Hill, and I’m really honored to have been asked.

It isn’t just the show (although that’s an amazing opportunity); it’s about what it represents for me.

2012 has been a crazy year. I started it by stating that I had expectations for it. I don’t often do that, make grand declarations at the top of a year, prognosticating a favorable future and actually hoping I’m right. But I did it this year. And, if God wills, I’ll keep being right.

From May until the end of August, I was a daily contributor at Clutch magazine, which led to my work being republished at The Root and, one dizzying time, at Salon. Needless to say, my visibility as a writer increased, which has always been one of the deeper desires of my heart. It’s a heady, blissful sensation, working really hard on a piece of writing and watching it land with a large cross-section of people. But I’ve always stopped short of pursuing the “brass ring” kind of opportunities. National mag pitches. Spec TV/film script pitching. The aggressive pursuit of a book sale. Speaking engagements. Personal branding.

It’s been too easy for me to psych myself out, to tell myself the market’s oversaturated and too many people are already doing work similar to the kind I do. Or I’m not as good or as smart as I want to believe I am (good enough, smart enough). Or I’m going to be eviscerated by critics. Or the audience I court will find me patently underwhelming. I’ve always been afraid to cast my wings toward the sun, for fear of singeing them, of falling. (See my previously-written faith issues.)

Concurrent with those issues, though, my ideas about possibility and self-worth and self-acceptance have been expanding. It’s the kind of work you should ideally do in your teens and twenties, and work that some women (and men, really) count themselves blessed to accomplish at all. My work began when I had my daughter. I started believing I could inhabit a much larger space than that which I’ve allowed myself till now, because I’ve promised her as much for herself, and in order for her to trust me, she has to see me do it. But believing and bulldozing the cement walls are different endeavors.

Coming up with an approach to the latter remained a mystery.

Sometimes the approach finds you.

This is probably the first year of my decade-plus career as a writer that people have sought me out to write or to discuss things I’ve written, rather than me frantically searching for outlets willing to publish me. And more than any other time in my life, my work has been resonating with a large cross-section of readers, people from different walks of life, people with wildly divergent philosophies, people who I wouldn’t have ever imagined taking notice of the work I do. It’s also been met with far more criticism than it’s been before (in part because it’s been more widely published). And I’ve had ideas. Oh, the ideas. Grand, sprawling, lavish, daring ideas, which for the first time ever, I feel capable of implementing.

All these experiences have converged at just the right moment. It’s the moment I’m finally, mercifully prepared to handle them.

At any rate, if you can, tune in to HuffPost Live tomorrow at 12:50pm EST and watch the 20-min panel discussion on mental health in the black community. I’ll be there.

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