Day 3/100. Labor. Justice. Allies. The cursor blinks. My thoughts rush. My emotions rise. Words come and go today with chaos and uncertainty. First came a tribute: A poem for Zack TV, a man I never met from a city I know too well. They done gone and killed another. Someone's son and everyone's brother. My thoughts rush. My emotions rise. No more words come. I try again and get ... Silence commands blood on our hands. The cursor blinks and blinks. The poem gets crossed out--overwhelmed by the weight of the conditions of black lives. I try my hand at a more historical approach, I write of civilization's cradle, of the Niger and Nile Rivers, and of Empires. I describe the homeland and connect it to theft and robbed identities. I write about the New World and its free labor source and its ugliness swept under the rug of patriotism and capitalism and every other -ism. I write about the fight for rights, and I stop. My thoughts rush. My emotions rise. No more words come. Because my thoughts converge on ... I've known rivers. And heart completes: Rivers and deltas. Where cotton grows. And nooses still hang. The cursor blinks and blinks. History gets crumpled up and tossed to the side--too much, too much. I consider simple commentary next. I scribble thoughts on the diametric differences on labor and justice. I juxtapose Pain. Push. Pain. Push. to Privilege. Rest. Privilege. Rest. I argue justice from different planes never intersect. I assert that trauma passed down in the cells creates a genetics of fear. I connect this to systematic racism and systems like schools. Systems like schools and I stop. My thoughts rush. My emotions rise. No more words. I remember a recent meeting hosted by my kid's high school administration, a secret meeting invitations only distributed via word of mouth "as to not alert anyone" else, where the students in middle class mid-America said they experience racism on a daily basis from students and staff and don't feel safe at the school I send my children to each day. The cursor blinks and blinks. The tears fall. I can't be sure I know justice, and can not speak on that which I do not know. I stop writing. Let others labor while I sit in the pain of this realization.
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