Discomfort with Rage
Injustice in America
As I sit here after several hours of watching white nationalists storm into the nations capitol and create chaos, I realized how uncomfortable I am with rage. I pulled away from the television, prayed, cried and realized there’s no way around these feelings if I want to live.
I am a Biracial Black Woman, Mother to an amazing Black Male Teen. I want the best for him as well as all Black and Brown children in this world. In my 50 years on this planet I have seen countless acts of violence against Black and Brown people. In the last year alone there’s been multiple murders of unarmed Black and Brown people.
Black people have been shot for walking down the street, jogging through the park, coming out of a store and yes, even sleeping in their own bed. Perpetrators of violence have walked away free, yes, even cops who’ve murdered others in cold blood. Year after year, story after story and the fact that it still continues is beyond sickening.
Keeping in mind this last year and the numerous Black Lives Matters protests. Hundreds of peaceful protesters were greeted by hundreds of national guard, standing by waiting. Black and Brown people were very often sprayed with rubber bullets, tear gas and police violence, for walking down the streets.
Today, when I read that there was a MAGA “protest” outside the nation’s capitol, I decided to tune in for a brief moment to get a view of what was happening. After three hours and several tweets later, I actually felt a lump of rage grow in my chest. I felt my hands tense up with an uncomfortable feeling I’m not aware. I started cussing out certain Republican newscasters in my mind, bringing up my reasons for their stupidity. I said to myself, “Tara, turn off the TV, pull away now.” I felt the tears fall as I called for prayer. I then said the words, “I’m uncomfortable with rage.”
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve felt rage. I’ve expressed anger, whether in the pages of my journal, a poem or an essay. I’ve danced out the rage. I’ve gone for a brisk walk. I’ve managed these feelings, “appropriately.” As I reached for my journal, writing for myself just didn’t seem like enough. I had to write more.
As the images continue to play out in my mind, I want to scream. These dumb asses were able to gather in front of the capitol, shout, chant, break in, push around actual police, break into offices, chill out, take selfies with cops, parade a confederate flag around and more. They were able to do this with minimal push back, very few police and no national guard until hours later.
Now had this been a bunch of Black or Brown people, this would have been shut down within an hour or less. The national guard would’ve been deployed the minute they heard of a protest. The police would’ve surrounded them. There would’ve been tear gas, rubber bullets, real bullets and many people injured, dead even. This would not have lasted, if the protesters were Black and Brown. But they weren’t.
White nationalists, “alt right,” “proud boys,” white supremacists, whatever you want to call them, they got away with this. Regardless of the outcome, they were allowed to commit hours of mayhem, violence, destruction and more, just because they were white.
Perhaps I shouldn’t publish this as it’s written in anger. But this is what I have to say right now as I sit sheltered in place during a pandemic. Unable to physically go somewhere and scream.
White supremacy needs to end. The person who incited the violence, yes #45 I mean you, needs to be escorted out of the white house, impeached and charged. Life needs to move forward with real equity and inclusion, no tips for that right now.
What I have right now is the growing knot of rage I feel in my chest, that I don’t know what to do with.