What Matters? Who Matters?

Tell me that #AllLivesMatter.

Tell me.

Let me tell you a few stories.

Did my life matter when, in middle school, the PE teacher decided that I looked exactly like Whoopie Goldberg and decided that she was going to start calling me “Whoopie”?  When I refused to respond, she said called me Whoopie, again.  Once again, I refused to respond.  In front of the class, she told me to come when she called.  I told her that when she called me by my name, I would.  Did it matter that she yelled that she was about to make an example of me and yanked me out of the gym by my arm…leaving marks on me, and drug me to the principal’s office?  She tried to get me suspended.  She told the principal that I was being highly insubordinate.  When the principal asked what I had done, the teacher told her.  The principal sent me back to class, but later called me back to tell me that if I had just played along, then it wouldn’t have happened.

Did my life matter when, again in middle school, my English class thought that it would be funny to throw me a surprise “Baby Shower/Mother’s Day Party” so that my baby would have everything that he or she needed?  You know, I was told because, “Well, you people tend to have lots of babies very early in life, with no fathers around.  We just want to make sure that you’re not too much of a burden on the welfare office or your family.”  It was a party.  There were snacks.  They shouted, “Happy Mother’s Day, Cerissa!” to me when I walked into the classroom.  At least two teachers were complicit in that event.  No one stopped them.  No one told them that what the ENTIRE class was doing was wrong.  I can’t be sure if these kids’ parents knew that they were doing this.  Even if they did, if they would have stopped them.  When I expressed to the teacher how hurt and humiliated I was, she told me, “Oh, God!  You need to have a sense of humor or you’re not going to get very far in life.  They were just having fun.”

The same teacher who asked me if I was straight from Africa because my skin is as black as coal, my nose is disproportionate to the rest of my face and my hair is so kinky.  The same teacher who asked me if I knew who my father was, and if my brother and I had the same one.

Did my life matter when, in high school, I was told that I couldn’t be a real part of the quiz bowl team because I wasn’t “representative” of my school?  When I was told that I would make an excellent mascot, or team sponsor support person because, you know, Blacks weren’t really into academics. 

Did my life matter when, as an adult, I was driving my now husband’s Mustang down Bay Area and I got pulled over by a police officer for the vehicle having no front plates?  When the officer pulled me out of the car, told me, “Get your fucking hands on the hood and keep them where I can see them!”  When he informed me that people “like me” love stealing cars like that.  He ran my license while threatening to arrest me for stealing a car and identity theft.

Did my life matter when a woman at an optometrist’s office lied on me, and told her boss that I stole a handful of $6 eyeglass chains?  When that doctor approached me and accused me, not questioned, not asked…ACCUSED me of stealing them.  When my parents showed up and another worker there told my mom that “she didn’t look like that kind”.

Did my life matter? 

Do you realize the one difference between me and my attackers at those times?

Do you?

Do I need to spell it out for you?

You might say, “But, they weren’t violent attacks.”

The hell you say.

I was 12 years old when teachers, classmates, and so-called friends violated my childhood.  My innocence.  My right to feel safe at school.  My right to go to a teacher or administrator and tell them that I had been wronged.  My right to trust the adults around me.  My right for justice.

That was pretty damned violent, if you ask me.

I don’t need one person to validate, or invalidate, the life that I have lived in the skin that I have.  In each and every instance, my life…my BLACK LIFE did not matter.

So, go somewhere with #AllLivesMatter, because clearly, they don’t.

So now you say, “But, that was in the past.  You should get over it.  You should forgive and forget.  People change.”

You know what?  Those people who have been murdered…those BLACK people who have been murdered…deserved at least that much.  They may, or may not, have had questionable pasts, but didn’t they deserve better than what they got?

Don’t tell me to “forgive and forget” if you aren’t willing to do the same.  I’ll tell you, honestly I’ve forgiven.  It takes too much to carry that hate.  It festers and makes you as hard-hearted and lifeless as those who are engaging in the wrongdoing. 

But, I haven’t forgotten.  I won’t.  I can’t.  It is part of my history.  You can’t make me, and you can’t shame me for it. 

If it bothers you, get up, get out, and do something about it.  Prove to me that #AllLivesMatter to you by helping to prove that #BlackLivesMatter.

Believe me, you can support #BlackLivesMatter AND #CopsLivesMatter at the same time.  It’s called #ActingLikeADecentHumanBeing.

Make me believe that #AllLivesMatter.