We Don’t Need No Stinking Heroes

No matter which of the many addresses my sister and I lived at as we grew up, we always lived under my mother’s punishing roof. We were subjected to our alcoholic mom’s cruelty and humiliation when she managed to notice us; the rest of the time, we were merely neglected. (It wasn’t all bad, but this was the basic floor plan.) Besides locking myself in my room, I had to leave my house to feel safe. School was an almost heavenly respite for me, as was the city library, my friends’ houses, movie theaters, and a vintage resale shop. I went as far as becoming my junior high track team manager, even though I’d proven my lack of coordination since I could walk. My avoidance of home intensified when I began working part-time and started getting drunk and stoned at fifteen. (I’m gratefully sober now.)

For me, leaving my house was a way to escape danger, but the opposite is true for most black people in the United States. A black American walks out the door into a world of dangers I can’t imagine. But like the danger and violence in my home, the system of punishment that is racism has nothing to do with the people subjected to it. They can’t control or predict it, nor can they do anything to avoid it altogether. They must remain ever vigilant against it, as I was against my mother’s cruelty—which is an exhausting way to live! It saps away a significant amount of the energy you need to build the life you want. I have feared no one as much as my mother, but unlike in my case, racism isn’t inflicted by a single actor. Here in the U.S., the crime of racism is perpetrated–not only by a person or people–but by the rules of the roof we live under. It is a roof that was built by a wealthy white patriarchy and is maintained by its offspring, including me.

No, racism isn’t hiding in plain sight like it was for a lot of us white people before George Floyd was brutally murdered, and the killings that have happened since. We’re beginning to pay attention to the ongoing process of naming and cataloging the wrongs we’ve collectively stored in the attic, and the horrors we purposely buried under the floor of our untidy Democracy—the ones we’ve been told about for so long, but didn’t want to look at. More than ever before, we have the chance to clear away that nasty, outdated junk to make space for a future when we will finally ease up on black people and other people of color, when they will live like they breathe—freely.

People tell me I’m incredibly strong and resilient for having survived my childhood, which I suppose is true, but I was permanently diminished by it and I grieve for the little girl I might have become. One of my favorite quotes is from Colin Powell. Speaking about childhood trauma, he says, “Childhood should not require heroism.” I think the same applies to the trauma of racism: living-while-black should not require heroism.

When I used to think of the bravest people, I’d think of soldiers, activists, firefighters, sometimes cops, but I’ve changed my mind. After watching the deaths of so many, I think black men, women, and children are the bravest among us. What does that bravery look like? Walking out the door, or answering the door, or not answering the door.

We must rebuild this Land of the Free so no one has to carry the burden of bravery.

[I originally wrote this on July 20th, 2020. I removed it, thinking I would send it off to be published somewhere else. I didn’t, so here it is again with some updates. Sadly, it didn’t need many updates, meaning not much has changed in two years.]