Glass House

A few days ago, Chris and I took a walk along the bay.
The breeze blew, the pelicans flew, and Chris and I strolled by. He looked mostly at the water on our left, and I admired the houses on our right.

I stopped at one house, in particular, that had a glasshouse in the backyard. I tried showing it to him, but he looked at it briefly and kept on walking.

I remained standing in awe of the mini-house, but Chris slowed his gait only to tell me to stop staring, and speed up.

I was a little annoyed, but when I met up with him, his words erased my annoyance and replaced it with an ache. “Babe, I’m a black man walking in a white neighborhood. I can’t afford to just stop and look because the first thought won’t be that I stopped to admire their houses.”

We walked in silence for a few minutes.

Three days later, we learned that a young black man was killed – in the middle of the day while jogging.

There is a loud outrage when a black man is killed. Sometimes I wonder why I feel numb. Why am I not protesting, speaking out on my social media, and trying to do all the things the outraged are…?

I’m tired.  We’re tired.

Black people cry out every day!
Rather than hitting the high note and losing momentum, black peoples’ outcry is in the form of a daily hum. It’s everyday work. We adjust ourselves: we lower our voices, tame our hair, and drive slowly. We don’t stop and admire a house, wear a hoodie, turn our music up, and as of late, we can’t jog in the middle of the day.

While some people live in the glass house of privilege, one more thing is added to the list of what black people can no longer do without the fear of death.

♥

Kadine Christie