You know, there are some sadistic people in this world. You know, the ones who want to keep hurting you because they didn’t hurt you enough? Yea them, those people. You gotta watch out for those people…
I am starting to realize that some white people enjoy watching black people suffer. I was privy to this epiphany after a recent experience at my job. While case conferencing a client, I made a mistake. I became very emotional. Usually I would never classify such vulnerability as a mistake however in this case it was. You see I work with a team of all white people. I am the only black social worker on the team. My white coworkers have a penchant for misery. When I became emotional discussing a clients needs, they noticed this was a sore spot for me. They continued to pry and dig, greedily looking for me to bleed. Even to this day, they continue to dangle this mangled piece of agony over me in hopes of triggering my pain as I have come to realize that my pain is their prosperity, toxic sustenance for those lousy with misery and trust and believe, they are both lousy and miserable!
Right now I am speaking to all Black social workers everywhere. Dear Black social workers, you must be careful. Some of your white counterparts only got into the business of social work because they enjoy seeing black pain. They want a front row seat to the show. Their supposed “help” is really just a veiled attempt to help themselves to black pain. I mean where else are you gonna get a steady supply of black pain except in underserved areas full of black people? These supposed “white saviors” are in effect white vampires looking for their next fix. How long are we going to keep bleeding for them?
Historically racist white people have always enjoyed witnessing black pain. From us hanging high up in the poplar trees dangling as strange fruit, to us being tortured, beaten, mangled and bruised, white people have always derived a sick pleasure from our suffering. Even to this day, many racist white people pull up articles that showcase our bullet-ridden bodies and our blood-soaked skulls. They want all the gory details. They do not want anything left out. The bloodier, the better. It is like our death has become America’s favorite past time, a twisted tradition that is as familiar and as kindred as Christmas time.
Truth is Black pain is like the painful part of America’s love song, we return to the part that hurts the most because it didn’t quite hurt enough. White America wants to see our hurt as this fuels their sense of superiority and adds fodder to their desire for supremacy. To see us bound in chains, faces stained with the indelible scars of trauma, makes them feel better by comparison. At least they are not as bad off as we are. Our suffering makes them grateful to be white; to be sheltered by privilege and protected by way of association.
Even the way some white news reporters chronicle black pain you can get a sense of the underlying blood lust emanating from their delivery. How our suffering is reduced and distilled down to mere ratings. How our blood is liquidated for the sake of entertainment. How it has become commonplace to see black death as just another happening. Something that just happens. No explanation, just the way it is.
Well it is NOT just the way it is! Dear Racist White People, Black people are tired of dying for your entertainment. We will fight back and it might cost you your wife, your mother, your children. How would you feel if your existence, the existence of your relatives hinges on our survival? Black people are tired of relying on the plantation of white kindness because such kindness can at times have hidden intentions. Such generosity extended can at times be a Trojan horse that intends to storm the fort through the covert celebration of spilled black blood and Amerikkka, we are tired of bleeding for ya’ll!
In my work I realize that black joy is both weapon and shield. It has protected our spirits for years and while many of our black bodies have been taken by death, our spirits have given us new breath. To those of us left, we have learned the art of living. Many of us have forgotten this, have allowed grief to rock us into learned helplessness but we are not helpless. We come from a legacy of powerful strength. We come from spiritual riches and creative resilience. I will never be conditioned to think that we come from anything less. Death is not our fate and our fate is not death. We simply must reclaim our industriousness. We must extract the voices of those who have tried to oppress our spirits. Many racist white people have tried to speak death into our being. But we have not listened and we have silenced them and will continue to silence them with our intelligent resistance. While they may get a kick out of our devastation, we must learn to close up shop. It is time we starve the demons and start to fight back!
