It’s been a hard month in the land of celebrities we love. Several of the people who spit the verses we kick back to and have given us the television we’ve enjoyed have shown their natural asses and proved that it is an unhealthy trait to put celebrities on a pedestal because they are absolute human beings. They do some of the illest human-being shit but often shit that only surprises us because we put them in this ‘light’ or position where we expect (or at the bare minimal hope) them to behave in the most angelic of ways.
But that’s not what reality presents us with now, is it?
First, there was Jay Z and Beyonce, which actually started a few years back with the release of Lemonade. As all of us Jay fans tried to relax and wait for what he would artistically do to redeem his proverbial fall from monogamy’s grace, he hit us with 4:44; a dedication of self-reflection, family, honesty, and empowerment. When he rapped “I’ll fuck up a good thing if you let me/Let me alone Becky” (Family Feud), along with the songs Many Have Faced God and the title track, he gave us the confirmation we’d waited over a year for: that he cheated on Beyonce and Lemonade was a musical biopic of Beyonce’s pain, resilience, and triumph. Jay’s album was so well received by the masses, myself included, that even though we all sent a collective side-eye his way for cheating (like seriously…WHO is she???), we forgave him, as Beyonce clearly has done, and rocked his newest work on vol-max with little trepidation. Were we disappointed? Yeahhhhh, but hey, we survived.
But let’s come closer to today. It’s May 2, 2018, and it’s approximately 4:14 PM as I type. So.Much.Has.Happened!!!!! And I’ m not blogging to talk about it as much as I am to question this insane amount of picked and chosen silence. Let’s take a look shall we:
I don’t have to regurgitate the bullshit he has strewn all over the press floors that allow him to shuffle his punk ass into their building and begin using his voice but . …. btw, where exactly did this voice derive from? Whatever good his interview w/Charlamagne did him was immediately erased and replaced by his spontaneous trip to the TMZ offices. I can’t even begin to outline the extent of my disappointment at his disparaging remarks that left many of us scratching our heads and hitting rewind just to see if what we think he said was true. Yes, it is true. He said slavery was a choice. He said black folks don’t care about black on black crime. He said he loves trump and that’s his brother…BRO! And I again want to point out this new slaves voice he’s using. I can’t sit through an entire interview while he uses it.
It’s not about his right to ‘free thought’.It’s his approach, his tactics, his voice (whose voice IS this????!!!!)….it’s who he’s aligning himself with and how he even got to that point to begin with. I could care less why he’s mad at Jay Z; I want to know what happened to the Ye that “Never Let Me Down.”
“Racism still alive, they just be concealing it”
~Kanye, College Dropout
Something I felt particularly disturbing about the TMZ interview was when he suggested being afraid that the young black man that read his ass to filth was going to try to fight him.
“So if I come over there, you’re not gonna fight me?”
If this ain’t fresh out of a cigarette pack of white tears, I’m unsure what is. This disturbed me on a level that let me know, not only is Ye not really trolling us (he is a little but not to this extent), but he really has gotten lost in the sauce of rich, white influences, Hollywood and seemingly an unnamed cult of trump supporters. It’s disturbing. It was disheartening to see our Ye treat another black man like he’s fearful of him while conveniently aligning himself with donald trump who happens to believe that police should do more in the realm of “roughing up” the suspects [who, when black, they fear].
That small clip worked my spirit. But what I noticed, that conflicted me emotionally, is a massive amount of celebrity support for Ye. John Legend called him to check on him and offer him a new perspective. T.I. stepped in and even recorded a song with him. Charlamagne interviewed him. Thousands of fans are still lining up for support of his free thought and of course, his wife supports him. In a sense, I love it. I love that people didn’t just jump at throwing him away; that folks like John Legend and T.I. (his friends) stepped in to talk to him – that’s the society I want to live. A place where we don’t just toss people to the side even when they need to be. It’s funny how folks are swearing he has a mental illness but in the same breathe want to throw him away. To me, that’s contradictory. But I digress with a question:
Where was this love, support, and respect for Chrisette Michele,
who not only issued a public apology but spent time at The Breakfast Club explaining her ”bad decision”, the aftermath, her suicidal thoughts, and where she stands with it all today.
There was no love offered her way or even a public display of apology acceptance. The so-called black delegates traded her and there’s nothing we can do about it huh? I posted the video from her Breakfast Club interview and stated that we need to stop throwing people away. I felt for her as I listened to her speak about experiencing a miscarriage then reading the comments to see how many people said she deserved it or offered her no empathy whatsoever. I had four likes. Meanwhile, the capes for Kanye are selling off the shelves.
But there’s something else. There’s an apparent media blackout on Nas & Fabulous. Two more of our beloved hip-hop celebrities who have fallen from grace, both due to domestic violence allegations. Kelis accuses Nas of being a heavy drinker and abusive to her over the course of their marriage. Emily B. accused Fabulous of punching out her front teeth. Then, of course, there’s the video of him threatening her father, holding some type of knife-looking weapon and slow-charging toward Emily. You know what people say when they see that video?
“We don’t know the full story.”
“They were together at Coachella.”
It’s disheartening AF. What does it take to make the voices of black women a priority worth listening to? I listen to Joe Budden and a ton of other podcasts and have heard plenty of excuses as to why these two aren’t being reported on. Charlamagne even went so far as to suggest that women come out with some sort of statement because Fab and Emily were seen together in Cali. THE FUCK? He suggested an apology until he realized how stupid it sounded. Few, if any, have mentioned Nas. Is it because it’s old? Or because it’s Kelis, someone the industry hasn’t always taken very kindly to? What’s the reasoning behind the silence on the abuse allegations against some of our hip-hop favorites while simultaneously flying across the air in a pair of Yeezy sneakers, YeCape blazing in the wind?
It’s been a hard month. We can’t lose everyone at once, right?
Some of our favorites have disappointed us with actions that don’t reflect the head bobs we enjoy at the expense of their music. It’s hard to put a thought to our beloved Nas, the mastermind behind “If I Ruled the World” and Illmatic in general, being drunk out of his mind and abusing Kelis in halls of a Calabasas home. I get it. The same for Fabulous. We’ve watched him grow from a crooked tooth young cat to a reserved elder in the game and it’s not easy watching him look like the accusations made against him might be true. Still, they both get a pass of silent non-judgment. If Emily stayed with him, it must not be true. He must not be so wild and uncontrollable that he would dare knock her front teeth out and threaten her father (without a valid reason…lol). And Kelis is a wild-card that was releasing ‘crazy’ music until she got with Nas so she must have hit him first right? It’s been nine years so what difference does it make now? She stayed so it must not be true…right?
Kanye West is trending across all social media platforms as well as YouTube, meanwhile, Fabulous and Nas don’t even have to publicly address their situations and none of their industry friends are talking about it. Its likely that if these things did happen, the very people that aren’t talking also aren’t surprised. No interventions are being staged and there are no stand-up guys that are trying to talk some sense in them. It’s just silent.
Who would these people be if they were not famous? Fame doesn’t change the soul of their personality. So if they weren’t in the public eye, who would they be? What was their environment growing up and how did they see women treated? How were they taught to show love? Celebrity status doesn’t erase any of these things, it only magnifies the mistakes of them, so I ask again, who would they be if we didn’t know their names? I ask this because I wonder why it’s so impossible to believe that they would do the things they are accused of? Because we love One Mic and still think Breathin’ goes hard? According to https://ncadv.org/statistics, 1 in 3 women have experienced some form of domestic violence while 1 in 4 has been a victim of severe domestic abuse. With stats like these, I ask one final time, why is it so hard to believe they did it? Listen to that video of Kelis and convince me that she’s making all of that up. Why isn’t there more outrage? How does it not rank as dangerous and important to address as Kanye? Finally, why aren’t the men of hip-hop flocking to the phone lines, twitter pages and studios of these brothers to talk to them and help them heal their demons (so as to protect other women from experiencing such harm), as is the situation with Kanye? If the Nicki Minaj is dating Nas, why ain’t Drake asking him “what’s good?!”
BTW, Russell Simmons stands with pulling Kanye to the side and trying to save him.
R. Kelly. Nelly. Too Short.
I’m not saying these men are guilty at all. Well, we know R. Kelly is guilty as fuck but the rape allegations against Too Short & Nelly have either been dropped or stalled so I will stress these are alleged accusations. However, I can’t help but notice that when it comes to harmful acts against black women, there is collective silence and/or the assumption that she is lying until she proves she’s not. Anything she does that seemingly condones the harm done to her invalidates her claims so Emily B. showing up to Coachella with Fabulous makes him not guilty in the eyes of the same public court that is outraged about Kanye’s slavery comments.
I’m outraged by his comments…and by this weird all-white college frat-kid voice he’s talking in. But his explanation of why he said that didn’t change what he said or how it made people feel. So why does Emily B. showing up with Fabolous or Kelis staying with Nas make their claims invalid?
I love being black. It’s no secret and we all know that much. But who would we be without women? Why is it when acts of brutality are committed against us it spawns no outrage? No memes calling for boycotts. No suggestions of removing support of the accused; nothing more than a brief appearance on theshaderoom.
It’s been a heavy few months. Quite frankly, it’s been a heavy few years. We’ve either lost some of the greatest performers that ever lived or we have been let down by their private antics in epic proportions. It’s hard. I still love Your Body’s Calling Me by R. Kelly but I refuse to listen to it. REFUSE. My ears can handle the loss and there is a world of music out here to replace it. The same with Kanye. No, I won’t find another Kanye, but I don’t have to listen to this one. I may still reminisce over old Spaceships and walks with Jesus, but this new Ye, new voice and all, can kiss my black ass. The same with Nas. The same with Fabolous. I may be one of few, but I’m paying attention to more than the moment. And some of what I see really makes me sad. But I will tell you what:
The black race can’t be more important than the black women that populate it.
And saving Kanye, who has clearly abandoned his black pride, shouldn’t be greater than saving someone’s life.
Man it’s been rough.
As Bony T said in Boomerang: “First the Fat Boys break up, now this. Nothing to believe in . . . “
Most of us aren’t this way because we want to be. We have no ill intent but, as spoken in those lyrics, it’s in our nature somehow. Our lack of control embarrasses us. The aftermath is shameful. We don’t boast about it in attempts to emasculate you. We would much rather have you hold us and help us through our journey to stop but you won’t be able to, after, it’s not your job. Anger is the most important emotion to control due to how violent it can make someone. Our control needs help. We can feel the rage as it starts to grow, but most times the argument in question has already gone too far. We don’t hit for sport or to exercise control; we hit for defense. I know it doesn’t make that much sense. But that tone of disgust that appears in your voice, and the sounds you make when you’re tired of us in the moment seem to push our meters up. The louder you yell and the more your language leaves a common disagreement and begins treading the thin line of emotional abuse, the less we can hold it down.
Don’t date women like me. For us, words have the same hit and force as fists and so we respond accordingly. At our boiling point lies the ‘violent bitch.’ We won’t be able to stop ourselves from risking it all as fits fly, rage thrashes and our eyes close to the incoming response.
Stay away from for we are dangerous.
We need help. We are pre-packaged so neatly and imperfectly flawless that it’s hard to remember sometimes that underneath the underwire in our bra lies a violent heart.
Two words that made up the title of a poem I heard back in 2003. Eventually, I wrote a response to it even though I wasn’t directly connecting myself to its subject matter. There have been several relationships where it never crossed my mind to throw a punch. For a while, I guess I thought I was ….ok.
We have ups and downs.
There are times, years even, where it seems like we’re different. We feel confident that we are healed although we never directly focused on such. It’s not until your kind comes along to dance a jig on our tightrope that we remember there is still something inside of us that needs fixing. We shake from the inside out. Use softer voices as a way of backtracking where the argument is heading because we know the feeling. We try without saying we are trying to keep from allowing the beast inside of us to be awakened.
Stay away from girls like me . . .
Because we fail at it often.
Your words will feel like mini knives, really sharp and piercing. Each one cuts a half-inch beneath the last and we can’t handle this. We weren’t taught how to properly deal with hurtful voices. Cruel and intentional word slinging can bring such mental devastation. Many people can handle that shit. They know how to pray their way through every disagreement or at least intercept it before it gets out of hand. We want to be this way and hopefully, one day we will. But for now, we know us and we beg you to watch your words. . . .
…But you don’t. You can’t because you are hurting too, from stuff we have nothing to do with. We both have been raised by with disappointment in our fathers. Your buttons get pushed too. It’s a masculine viewpoint of a mirrored reflection and we won’t be good for each other because of this. At best, we’ll be a hard erection to a sweet spot and the more we age, the more we know that life is way bigger than sex.
So stay away from us .
Girls like me are hurt inside our core where magma is pumping lava blood through our system. We have anger that knows how to get our attention. We’re not ready for what we wish we had and we won’t make good decisions while angry. To choose your kind would be to choose that same anger repeatedly. You may think it’s a knock against you but it’s not.
You’re not a bad person. You’re just a bad choice, for us.
Your beautiful is as bright as ours and I’m sure the shine will greatly impact a different life, but girls like me are too damaged to coddle your ego, tend to the needs you will have or pacify you with accommodating silence. Girls like me are loud.
Boisterous. There are times when we can be accommodating to our anger. Our hearts turn into leisure lounges for our temper to kick its feet upon. Anger feels welcomed with us; we open ourselves up and accept it…then we act on it. We don’t like being taken advantage of for the moment or the long-run or talked down to. We are not beneath you; we just have a different type of healing to do.
Girls like me can’t control it sometimes.
But we don’t give up. We are water bearers. Former mermaids that were drug out of the sea. Mercedes on feet, driving at full speed, poetry within a paragraph, perhaps we’re prose, girls like me don’t look like we would hoard the pain we do in our Micheal Kors bags but there’s much to be said about what we’ve internalized. It’s precisely why we don’t own compact mirrors. No one wants to see that when they are just trying to check for lipstick on their teeth. We feel secretly embarrassed when people speak of domestic violence. Because no matter how much of a discount we got on our Aldo heels, we know we still fit under that umbrella.
Stay away from girls like me….
Abusive girls. Abusive women.
Many would see us as lesser if they knew our secret, so we hide under cute dresses, crochet hairstyles, and Fenty foundation. We’re still ladies though. We want to do and be better but that begins with the choices we make on who we want to be and who we are willing to deal with.
Stay away from girls like me because we won’t deal appropriately with you. And you will call us crazy. You’ll tell a few friends that we are volatile. You’ll tell us we scare you and it will confuse us. We’ll respond with a chuckle at the idea that we instill fear in a grown man. But, I suppose it’s a fair statement. You will begin to do more than restrain us. You too will become violent and it will start with self-defense. It will grow into our standard relationship practices.
Girls like me… won’t give you what you need. We’ll be the opposite. Dangerously in love will understate how we act. So stay away from us. We are still mad at our fathers. A few of us still have yet to figure that out. They (our fathers) should have shown up. They should have taught us better and treated our mothers with more respect. We’re pissed that we (us andour mothers) were treated like everyday weeds instead of marvelous one of a kind flowers. There are pieces of our puzzle that require attention and repair and for us to stop looking out of our childhood-colored glasses.
There is no choice but to see those who failed to teach us proper love as human beings that just so happened to be in control of someone else’s upbringing. We can’t hold them higher than human nature. We’re special but not that special. Some of us are in charge of someone else. It’s a learning process to figure out no parent is above being a human being and one day, if we don’t fix our broken pieces, our children will feel the same way we do. We will inevitably show them a poor path of loving if we don’t allow growth to take place within ourselves.
Just stay away from us.
Not for now but for good. You are no good for us. Or to us.
We have to heal. We have to figure it out. We have to become greater than we are right now.
We have to choose better – for our internal and external selves.
And when this process has completed itself and we are open to freely fly in the name of love, we have one final request one of you:
Stay away from us.
Stay away from girls like me.
We are fragile.
And no matter how much gold lines the cracks in our Kintsugi, you will break us open and re-expose our blackouts.
We don’t want that.
Neither do you.
“All this love you speak of,
All I want is to love and be loved”
Nicki Minaj, the Crying Game
So stay away from girls like me.
Girls who are abusive started as girls who were abused – could be literally, figuratively or both. And if you ever wondered, abandoning your child is a form of emotional abuse (and torture). We want a love that won’t make us look back and that won’t pull violent tendencies out of our luggage when our intention is to unpack.
You’re not so special that you should be able to bring us the bags we’ve sat down for the last time.
This is the year of breaking cycles: Cycles of how we act and,
During the car ride of pure silence, with my mouth literally hanging open and tears hanging at the cliffs of my eye lashes, I remember thinking ‘I just wrote that it’s ok to be in the hood.’ Right then, I felt like I had been tied to a post and was being beaten with embarrassment’s fist, along with tons of other emotional heavyweights. Let’s go back . . .
A couple of days ago, I went to meet my sister for lunch. She had a short trip in the city and was on her way back to Atlanta on this particular day, so we decided to meet up for brunch. Since she was dropping her daughter off at a church nearby where I live, I told her I would meet her at my house. With Nicki Minaj’s “Looking Ass Nigga” on near volume max (and repeat), I hit the highway in a festive mood, feeling and looking like great. Setting the emotional tone is important. I was hype and happy when I slowed to the red light just off the highway. Everything happened so quickly. As I turned onto my street, I saw my sister’s car pulling up to the stop sign. I figured my niece must have forgotten something or that she needed to go to the gas station. I could tell as I waited to turn onto my street that she was on the phone. She flagged me down with her arm hanging out the window and I pulled up right next to her, turning the music down. Before she could say anything, there was a car turning onto the street behind me so I had to pull off because we were blocking the street entirely. I drove to the corner and pulled up in front of my house before deciding I needed to run to the gas station and might as well drive. I pulled up into a space in front of the door after noticing my sister’s car parked away from the pumps and off to the side. Still oblivious to all things, I turned my music down and was slowly grabbing up my purse and covering my laptop. I turned to open the door and she was right there, shaking and almost in tears.
“Some guy just pulled a gun out on me”, she said as my brain scrambled to process what I had just heard. She further explained that she had simply parked and started messing with her phone when she noticed an issue arising.
Let’s back up some more. She got there before I did and had driven to the end of the street to make the u-turn. Once she turned around and parked, she noticed someone in a car that had pulled up very close behind her and seemed to be ‘poppin off’ at her. She thought maybe he wanted the parking space so she pulled up more. Next thing she knew, the guy was outside of his car, cussing and hollering and showing his gun…AT HER! Mind you, her windows are tinted dark so you can’t see inside her car very much and she has Georgia plates, so I was just as confused when she told me as she was when it was happening. Who would have a problem with her and why? Was it me? Had I done something and it was now spilling out on her? Instantly terrified, she sped off and up the street to get away just as I turned onto it.
Now here is where things go even more left field.
She had already called the police, which is why she was on the phone when I turned onto the street. When you think your life is in danger, that’s what you do right? Call the police? I don’t know. To be black in America, I can say for certain I don’t know what you’re supposed to do. It could turn out against YOU! That is a REAL and legitimate Black In America fear. Who would want that on their conscious?
We stood at the gas station and she expressed her concern for going back on my street and talking to the police especially because I live there and she didn’t want to exacerbate the situation. Keep in mind we had no idea why this man pulled his gun out and was snapping on her or who he even was. I didn’t recognize the car description and had no idea of what to do. We were both pretty scared, to say the least. I saw my neighbor walking his dog and I went into auto-pilot. I was standing there in heels and a bouncy dress that I bought in the Bahamas and some fancy footwear that I got from NYC; I needed to change into war gear and investigation shoes. I told my sister to stay at the station and I was going to ask my neighbor if he saw anything and change my clothes. Remember: the police have already been called at this point. We see a cop drive up the street. I got back in my truck, drove home and pulled up just as my neighbor was stepping onto his porch. I stopped him and ask him if he saw anything or was familiar with the car she described. He said no and I walked off, nervous and wondering why someone would do this and what should I do. I can’t have my sister scared to visit me- that’s my fucking sister. NO!
AND, it’s broad effin daylight on a weekday!!! WTF?
The police drove past two more times while I stood there and on their third rotation, I stood in the street with my arms stretched with the best WTF look that I could plaster across my face. He stopped just as he passed me, opened his door and asked did I call the police. I told him verbatim “no, but my sister did. She’s scared to come back on the street and she is over at the gas station”, and proceeded to describe her car. He said ok, got back in his car and drove off. Assuming he was heading over to her, I ran in the house and changed clothes, let the dogs out real quick and quick-footed it back outside. I was at her car in less than ten minutes. When I got to her passenger door to open it, a voice rang out from across the parking lot “Hey Kendra, tell her I’m sorry.”
I stood there perplexed as fuck and he said, “I wouldn’t have done that, I thought she was someone else. I’m sorry.”
Finally words came to my lips: “That was you!!???”
He said, “Yeah, tell her I’m sorry.”
I nodded and got in the car to find my sister staring at me with the WTF face I had given the police and I’m not sure what face I gave her back. I regurgitated his words as best as I could and included the fact that I knew him. Seconds passed and we pulled off and up MLK BlVD, not really sure what to say or feel. Well, at least we knew it was over and nothing else would come of it? Was she safe to come back on my street? Was she traumatized? Was I angry? Scared? I had so many feelings fighting for top attention that I physically could not speak. I felt like crying. Straight up, I felt like bursting into complete tears but then she would console me and this was soooo not about me right now. Again, I had so many emotions. When she apologized for calling the cops and cried as we crossed 16th Street, I felt like the words were pushing to get out but there was no connection with my voice. It might seem dramatic, but I promise, we were both stunned into silence. Her apology broke that silence and I returned it with nothingness although inside of me, I screamed to her that she did nothing wrong. What is life when you apologize for calling the police because your life feels threatened? But again, when you’re Black in America, that can result in lives lost and IMPD is no exception.
That right there is some complicated, unfair shit.
We pulled over and parked on the outskirts of the IUPUI lot across from Crispus Attucks. We sat there, my sister still shaken and really not up for driving, and me in silence with my mind on a thousand speed. I suggested we pray. It was the best, safest place I could think to go. I didn’t feel emotionally equipped to know what to say to make her feel ok. I felt bad for knowing the guy and even worse because I had to deliver his apology. When I spoke it, it felt like the first cigarette after a long day on a new addict’s tongue; there was a sense of relief and sadness. As we sat there in this parking lot, I was able to find my words and tell my sister not to apologize for being scared or for calling the police. I reminded her that that’s what is supposed to happen. That in the heat of the moment of straight fear, you’re not always (if ever) going to think about how Black Lives (don’t really) Matter while in search of help. We are supposed to be able to call the police. They are supposed to be trained to help us, especially in these situations.
As the ice was broken and we were able to calm and collect ourselves and find some peace in it all, a group of three people walked in front of the car on the way back to work at Attucks; one white man in a suit and two black women. One woman walked a bit ahead of the two others and as the white man and black woman trailed, we both noticed the woman’s cute heels. They were Lucite-block style 3′ or 4′ inch sandals with triple straps, but not over the top. She had on a cute red dress that didn’t hug or hide her figure. Her hair was natural and we both noted that she was STRUTTING in those heels. She walked so confidently in who she was that I’d dare someone try to convince me she ever shed a tear. Black women, I tell you. We are beautiful. I couldn’t resist the opportunity to roll down the window and shout “YOU BETTA WERK BLACK QUEEN!!!!”
She raised her hands and smiled a thank you. It was like the clouds broke and the sun came through. I don’t know what significance that was, but I had to share it. We set forth on our journey to food (tried to get some Trap food but she ran out #Splat #NextTimeGadget), picked up my niece and made the rest of our time beautiful. At least two and a half hours passed by before we went back to my house, feeling at ease and safe to pull up.
Life comes at you fast man . . .
As I got out of her car, the young man that I knew (yes, the young man that had the gun out) was walking up to my neighbor’s house (yes, the same neighbor who I had stopped earlier). It was spooky AF. I’m not even trying to tie anything together because I know it was all mere coincidence, but the irony wasn’t lost on me. He had clearly seen us pulling up because as soon as I stood outside the car door (my sister and niece still in the car), he began apologizing again. Like I said, this guy is no stranger to me. I don’t ‘fear’ him. I know him well and have always thought he was a good kid. He lives around here but I’ve known him prior to moving over here. We speak every time we see each other. I ask about his children. It’s easy to say I’m disappointed in the situation as a whole, but it’s a greater thing to appreciate the fact that from the most sincere place he could foster it from, he was offering an apology. That’s not something that can be ignored in this society. That situation could have gone horribly wrong. One of the thoughts that ran through my mind was wondering how many people have lost their lives as a case of mistaken identity. I’ve always heard that if you’re going to pull your gun you better be prepared to shoot, so in his preparation, that whole scenario could have been an unnecessary disaster. His apology simply can’t fall on deaf ears and you know why? Because if it does, it teaches him (people) that remorse is not appreciated and therefore not necessary. In the arrogance of the today’s society, someone owning up and saying they made a fucked up mistake and apologizing is something that has to be noted. It doesn’t erase anything, but it one isn’t sorry for an offense, then they are liable to do it again. In the end, we all found a place to share a smile as we went in our respective different directions. It was the best possible ending to an unlikely, fucked up situation that shouldn’t have happened, but did.
And that’s that piece. . .
Or is it?
Before I end this blog, let me address the real yellow elephant with the mouth full of peanuts. My sister called IMPD, against her better judgment and inner black woman voice. She felt threatened and scared and she told the 911 operator that she was “terrified”. I know she was scared because when she was standing at my door in tears, she was shaking. When a car drove up alongside us while we were parked, she jumped. She did the right thing, per the way our society is supposed to behave. She called 911 and even left them her number to contact her back, per the operator’s request. My interaction with the officer was bare minimal. Remember, I directed him straight to my sister with a description of her car. That was the end all of our conversation.
That officer and no other one ever went to my sister’s car. They did absolutely nothing and I’m going to be honest by saying I don’t know what they could have done given the situation. They didn’t know who it was and neither did we. The car was nowhere in sight from what I could tell. But to refrain from going and talking to the person that called, regardless of what you can or can’t do to help, is a sign of weak ass policing, a true lack of concern for local citizens and possibly some area-stereotyping. Here’s a little more irony: approximately seven days prior to this, members of IMPD were all gathered and standing with Rev. Harris, the Ten Point Coalition and the news cameras in this exact same area at the old Double 8, which also doubles as the ten point central location. It’s where I see them standing almost daily when I come home from work. I won’t pretend to know what that meet and greet was for but I’m sure it had something to do with this bullshit campaign Rev. Harris and IMPD are serving the public by suggesting they are responsible for lowering crime in certain areas, this one in particular.
You know what I did not see the entire time this situation played out with my sister? A fluorescent green vest! Twenty-four hours later, I saw them at the same Double 8 parking lot, standing and congregating.
You see, I’m calling bullshit on the biggest bullhorn I can find. It is a slap in my face and it is disrespectful to the community members that live in this area and live with the crime and fears to play on our intelligence in the name of receiving grant and state funding to live the good life. I’m appalled that a man who oversees a church, where people go to serve the Lord, could so smugly be ok with lying to the public and his own black people. Many people have called bullshit, but I actually live here and we’re no stranger to the fact that I grew up in (and mother lives in) the heart of Butler Tarkington. I’m not just talking about what I heard, it’s what I know. I can’t blame the Reverand or IMPD or ten point for the actions of another person and I don’t. But when I see them marching up the street with Channel 6 or whoever is the first to hit record, and I see them standing on the corner every day at 5 o’clock, but when something really pops off I don’t see not one through eleven fucks given by either the ten point coalition or the police, it really pisses me the fuck off. I know that was a long sentence and this blog is full of expletives, but man…these are actual feelings being placed into words. The lackadaisical attitude of the IMPD officers, particularly the one I spoke with (my goofy ass didn’t get his name and badge) has damaging results whereas trust, which was already minuscule at best, is concerned. The convenient broadcasts of the ten point dangerous area-field trips with news crews and Mike Pence are laden with irony to their lack of visibility on this day. Let me guess, they can’t be everywhere all the time. Yep. I know. I don’t like myself, my neighbors or community being used as experimental zoo pets in an effort to gain more funds to misuse. The Reverand and IMPD owe this community an apology for misrepresenting themselves. They should take some humility lessons from the guy that pulled the gun out.
This broad daylight, weekday situation had to de-escalate itself, which then makes me wonder how many other situations have found their own resolution. I’ve heard shooting, arguing in the middle of the night between men and women, disrupting and disrespecting the entire neighborhood and have yet to see a fluorescent vest come through and offer any positive assistance. Or any assistance period. I watch as the police park at the old Double 8 day in and out and watch the gas station for trouble. There is also a press conference held at that very Double 8 parking lot between IMPD, Rev. Harris & the coalition and whoever they invite at least once every few months, complete with bullhorns, microphones, AND BODYGUARDS (I can’t make this up…I’ve witnessed it), so there seems to be a lot of time on folks hands, yet a woman fears for her life in broad daylight and can’t find a bullhorn, a vest, a bodyguard or a fucking police officer that gives a fuck.
I am all out of wows.
I have so many questions, but none that will ever be answered. This shit will continue on as it has. Honestly, I feel some type of way about feeling some type of way towards IMPD. I know they aren’t to be trusted. I know they don’t give a fuck. They’ve shown it and I have no faith in police departments in general. The last time I was pulled over by a police officer, I turned my video on before he got to my window. I don’t trust them. So why should I expect them to care? Why should I be mad at what I could have predicted? Why do I feel some type of relief that they didn’t do anything because this IS the same neighborhood they killed Aaron Bailey in and yet they can’t seem to come clean and admit that was a fucked up situation and an officer deserves to swap his citizen job for an inmate gig.
As my sis Rheagan Gilmore would say, “TUH!” What faith did I even have in them to be broken?
Am I just shitty because they have proven what I had assumed? That it’s best to not even call. At least that way, no one gets killed by the police because of a call you placed, and you don’t run the risk of being disappointed in how much they don’t care. That officer looked me right in my face and said ok like he was about to go be Johnny on the Spot. Instead, he went back to his slop container, where Rev Harris has cooked up a nice meal of bullshit. Eat up. Tip accordingly.
Before I go….so what do we do in case of an emergency??? Who do we call?
This is a question I fear I will never have a sufficient answer for.
Recently, I sat on the back patio of my home, enjoying the sunshine and watching the butterfly that kept landing on the banister. My male dog tossed and turned in a dirt pit he dug for himself and his toys while my female rested her head sleepily against my leg. It was a typically quiet and serene moment at a place I call (t)HugzMansion.
My house rests in an area that has its fair offering of boarded-up houses and vacant lots. From my backyard and because of a vacant lot, I can see straight through to the one-way street one block over. It’s a busy westbound street and I watched as traffic sped by on their way to important destinations. A collection of sounds christened the air that ranged from loud trunk music to kids playing and ultimately my personal favorite, stillness. There is no shortage of trees in the back and I took special notice to the fresh spring buds sitting on high limbs that reached for the sky’s approval. Several trees were covered in purple buds that looked like a high field of lavender from where I sat. It was (and is) quite beautiful. As I sat, Cinematic Orchestra’s “Woman: Burnout” played us an evening soundtrack. It was a solid warm, peaceful spring day full of the kind of sunshine that tickled the tips of the growing grass and kissed my melanin ever so gently.
I had no complaints.
According to a 2013 Fox59 report, the 46208 zip code is not only one of the most dangerous zips in Indianapolis; it is ranked as one of the most dangerous in the entire country. In this zip code, along with 46205, a person has a one in fourteen chance of becoming a victim of a homicide. While the report itself goes on to mention certain areas within these zips, or pockets, the zip code itself is used as a blanket statement for an entire area covered under those ten specific numbers. Butler-Tarkington, which is not mentioned in the 2013 article but makes up a huge portion of 46208, was featured in the news in October 2016 for making it one year without violence after a string of unsolved murders left families broken and police stumped. It’s also been listed as a high crime, dangerous areas. The MLK and Riverside areas have also been known to fall under the title of danger zones. Both areas have endured a long notoriety with locals as being oppressively unstable and full of crime. I am not writing this blog to deny the existence of the all too frequent violence. In fact, I can easily understand how one comes to label these areas as they do. Who can forget 10-year-old Deshaun Lee Swanson, who was shot and killed during a drive-by that injured several others? That happened around the corner from my mother’s house and next door to the parents of a lifelong sisterfriend. My stepfather was supposed to be in that house that day but decided to stay home. Trust me when I say I am awake, alert and aware of the violence and negativity that go on in these places.
But doesn’t the label of “most-dangerous” at least somewhat eradicate the presence of the love that I happen to know exists in these areas? Does no one else feel marked and thrown away under such a label, or is it just me and my feelings?
Consider this: the label of “most dangerous zip code in the country” (or even the city) doesn’t identify the isolated pockets where the violence is most prominent. One would have to read between the lines to get that. Instead, that lable engulfs and speaks for the entire covered area while conveniently forgetting that despite what you see from the outside looking in, there are still families here. There are still people with goals and dreams, folks who are mentoring the teens and kids that live in these very areas. There are small, grassroots collections of people trying to combat the violence AND all the other issues plaguing our communities (food, transportation, health, etc).
I grew up in the Butler-Tarkington neighborhood. I have lived all over Indianapolis but I returned to the area in 2007 and spent the last ten years in the 46208 neighborhood. I can say with certainty and experience that there is so much beautiful to be seen and experienced in the hood. Last year, I tried to apply for a job with the INRC, a community-based organization that targets urban areas with the intention of building neighborhood awareness, communication and dialogue, as well as empowering the community to teach, grow and sustain itself through their own initiatives and talents. They use what is referred to as the ABCD (Asset Based Community Development) model to achieve this success. When using the ABCD model, you assess what are considered to be “weaknesses” and work on how to utilize them as strengths. In other words, there are no weaknesses. A person may not like to speak in public, but on the flip side, they are great listeners. That person could record information for someone. There are no vacant homes: those are potential artistic canvases OR rehabilitated meeting houses or safe places. Using the talents and gifts of the people within these areas, coupled with identifying ‘troubled’ areas (regarding buildings AND the people), and then learning how to turn those into assets is how you revitalize a community from the inside out…without gentrifying it.
But in order to respect that there is talent in these so-called urban, dangerous areas, there must be belief. There must be hope. Despite what is said about us, life still exists within our numbered boundaries.
Who knew??? Life exists in “the most dangerous zip codes” of Indianapolis!!!!
Indystar isn’t really good about reporting that though. The media is great for being first on the scene to capture people screaming and hollering in grief and disbelief when a dead body is discovered. They are Johnny on the Spot when a drug bust happens, even if they don’t have much information. But when over three hundred people draw together, along with the police (by happenstance), on a corner where folks are scared to make a complete stop at the four-way, no one is there but our own cell cameras. Then when two thousand people gather together in an event that could rival all of the summer expos and food festivals, but this one being held in a neighborhood that falls under the national label of danger, the only stories that are written are the ones we write for ourselves. Remember that person that doesn’t like to speak in public but is a good listener? He/She would fit well here to help create stories that live long after we do. OUR STORIES MUST BE TOLD. I am now part of a neighborhood organization called The Learning Tree where doing just that is a top priority.
My point of all of this not a list of suggestions of what we could do….but rather an ode to what we are doing. There is great work going on in the areas that many people are afraid of based on what they’ve heard. I spoke about my neighborhood to a coworker the other day with pride, not embarrassment or shame. As I heard myself, I couldn’t help but notice the second nature of which I bragged on the incredible initiatives in my area. The block I recently moved to is a very busy block. The street cramped with cars on both sides and the people hang out late at night with loud conversations. There are vacant homes on both sides of the street. My grandfather used to own one of them. Matter a fact, it’s the biggest one of the block – the biggest house and the biggest vacant. When I walk out of my door, I am not inundated with the negative. I see duplexes with bikes on porches and older men who frequent their stoops on a regular. There is a daycare in operation right next door to me. I hear kids crying as they get dropped off in the morning and laughing outside as I pull up in the evening.
I’ve often told people when I moved to 34th and Clifton (The Cliff), I was nervous as shit. I feared that I was making a mistake that would cost me my safety and/or peace of mind. I couldn’t have been further from reality. In the three years I stayed there, while some weird things definitely came about like the police repeatedly visiting and looking for someone who didn’t live there, or a random man knocking at my door at like 3 AM (I didn’t answer), it was a wonderful experience overall. There was a neighborhood street clean up the first year I was there. The second year led me to meet Mr. William Ryder, the artist whose home was a museum of his own incredible sculptures. He also told me how his father used to dress him up as a girl when he lived in or near Lyles Station, IN, where county officials were kidnapping black children to do radiation experiments on them. From what Mr. Ryder told me, they preferred boys hence his parents dressing him as a girl. I wouldn’t have met him, toured his home or looked into his beautiful eyes and saw all the ancestry they held with artistic pride had I been living in the safety nets of some place like Normandy Farms (traders point).
There is a gas station nearby my house that I see police presence and arrests nearly every day. Just last week, I watched a cop sit behind the Double 8 building and watch the station activities from his car using binoculars. I admit, there is a lot that goes on there and I personally try not to use it too much but I can’t be too surprised. After all, this IS one of the most dangerous places in the entire country.
People drive through here daily. I wonder if, when driving, anyone notices the precious gems that those of us who live here see? Such as the teddy bear memorial that I believe grows by the week from where two men lost their lives after a driver jumped the curb, striking and ultimately killing both men as they awaited the bus. It’s oldnewsbut the neighborhood hasn’t forgotten them. Do people only see what they believe are bums and addicts or do they notice the mothers walking down the street holding hands with their children too? Those are real people. Have they seen the garden preparation at the Flanner House that will provide freshly grown food to area residents in addition to offering gardening classes. Do people see all the kids that wait for the after-school food program that GRoe Inc. provides? Or is that too inner in the inner city? Kheprw has a great community food program for a low monthly cost. Neighborhood and community building is happening right before our eyes…and right above the labels.
Let the news tell it, the only saving grace in these areas is the 10-Point Coalition, spearheaded by a man whose affinity for profiling, stop and frisk and disparaging remarks about black youth keep him locked out from making any real impact on the people. Photo ops and a ‘walk thru’ or two with the Mayor are dope tho.
The link I provided in regards to the Butler-Tarkington area going a year without violence starts with a video of the news crew walking up 40th street with the 10 Point guys. The media seems impressed but those of us who live over here don’t see them until we turn on the tv or see the news crew outside. We are NOT impressed. Less reported are the grassroots efforts of the RESIDENTS. The people who live here when the camera crews pack up and go back to Noblesville and Carmel. Folks like these fathers who came together to not only work the streets of Butler Tarkington at night time in attempts to curb the violence, but they are attending community meetings and letting their voices (our voices) be heard. These are fathers and husbands who, through their own finances, offer children in the neighborhood options for the summer (football little league) and someone trusted to confide in.
A couple of weeks back, on the MLK side of 46208, I along with my partner, catered a “living room concert series”, where locals gathered together in a neighborhood living room for a concert-style dinner, entertainment and conversation. This event included area neighbors as well as people from the community that have the pull, the pockets and the DESIRE to invest in our areas. No animals were harmed and no gunshots rang out in the process. Lives were not lost; in fact, they were inspired and uplifted. The living room concert featured a live band and singer with me serving as the host and poet. A bit of community dialogue followed the music where questions were asked and input from those of us who live here was shared.
All of this in one of the most dangerous zip codes of Indianapolis and the entire country.
There is no question that violence, drugs, and police runs in these communities are frequent occurences. I am by no means attempting to dismiss the importance of curbing the statistics over here. But there are great things happening in the 46208 areas and it’s not coming by way of gentrification. It’s coming at the hands of the community residents that either stay here or travel over here to help rebuild the people. That’s the difference between gentrification and community rebuilding: In the gentrifying model, homes and land are bought and remodeled to look pretty. The rustic browns and tans of hood life are replaced with friendly hues from the pastel color wheel. Pink, blue and yellow siding line up the newly constructed homes or the ‘rehabbed’ places as the old neighbors are pushed out and new ones are brought in. Coffee shops pop up and white people start jogging with babies and strollers and the next thing you know, what was once a predominantly black area is now the new hipster area. *See Fall Creek Boulevard. Fountain Square didn’t become the revitalized artistic gem that it is now without pushing a shitload of people out and rewriting the story without them in it.
“30’000 feet up and you are not invited” ~Kanye West
But in the community building model, we fix the PEOPLE first and then assess what needs to be done regarding the homes, buildings, and land. The people are not pushed out; they are empowered. You can’t empower a building but you can its people. And that is happening all over urban areas with little to no coverage from local news outlets or stations. If it wasn’t for these blogs and articles that we write, we would only believe that these dangerous zip codes are places where you only drive through if necessary and you never move to on purpose.
I moved here on purpose, even with a fistful of fear I had collected by what I had heard. That fear was quickly eradicated and with the help of people like Earl & Ro Townsend, who started the GRoe Inc organization, it became easier to see how to be an asset instead of a complainer. I didn’t get the job at INRC but I’ve learned and am still learning how to apply the ABCD model to my community. Right now, if you look at my big yellow house, you may notice one of the blinds is a jumbled up mess. It is ridiculously ugly.
It’s been torn, shredded and manipulated to fit dog needs. I honestly don’t know what they did to get the blinds like they have but we have failed to replace them as of yet and it’s been a month or so.
You can see straight through on the bottom portion. I must say, it’s time to replace them. If a person was to judge my home based on my blinds, they would expect to walk into a dust-filled, grease motel with floors full of stuff you don’t want to step or stand on, the stench of dog piss and two couches that don’t match in one room. That’s far from the case. It’s typically clean in here although there are times when we get lazy. There is no shortage of furniture but it still has a very minimalist vibe as there are no televisions downstairs and nothing but the dinner table in the dining room. If you started from the inside first, you wouldn’t expect to see those blinds. In a sense, I guess I own the most dangerous blinds in the local area…and maybe even the United States.
Much like my blinds, the inner city has a stigma attached to it that comes with lowered expectations and stereotypical assumptions. Many people will stop at the stigma and never venture inward to learn otherwise. But if you dare step inside for a bit, you won’t last five minutes without learning that love lives here; daily. You will meet artists of varying mediums – string players, harpists, singers, and musicians. Painters and sketch artists, writers and photographers. There are places to learn how to garden, do yoga and work on clean eating. Yes, we live in a food desert with no standing bank. Yes, there is violence around us and an overwhelming police presence despite our lack of trust in them. But there is always laughter on our blocks. There are smiles and children with their bikes turned upside while they spin the tires with their hands. There are lavender buds on the tree limbs out back and the sun still kisses our flowers with precision. We have as much silence as a Carmel, Indiana subdivision and in the morning, the chirping birds don’t hesitate to sing to us. We are business owners. Working people. Retirees and school kids. Parents and elderly people with stories in their pockets. We are a community of people. We are more than a zip code and it’s label.
When I see or hear stuff like ‘I wish black folks would come together’, I can’t help but shake my head in immediate irritation (while wondering where the people who are quick to say this actually live). Clearly, they took the media bait and they believe there is little over here beyond the violence and heartbreak.
In reality, there is a great deal of good that goes on and I guess this is one of those instances where you just have to live it to know it. Or at least be a frequent visitor. The outside looking in often leads to a front row seat to ignorance.
From my front row seat, I get to see butterflies land right in front of me. That same butterfly landed on me before flying off again. #BeFearless
Nestled under the cold blanket of a harsh label, there are human beings trying to do and striving for the best…for themselves AND for their community.
Welcome to one of the most dangerous zip codes in America.
Not long ago, I watched the FX television miniseries,“The People v. O.J. Simpson”, and after the six-episode concluded, I had a clearer perspective on your and O.J. Simpson’s relationship that I didn’t have back in 1995 when I was sixteen years old. The series was well acted and although I recall most of the details, I wasn’t completely engulfed in the trial back then. I didn’t even really know who O.J. Simpson was. I just knew he was a football player who had been in Naked Gun or something, and I only knew about the acting because that’s how people kept trying to relate him to me. I knew what happened and I knew he seemed guilty. I also knew he was black and Rodney King was no stranger to me. And so 16-year-old Kendria Smith had her mind made up on what the outcome should be. I was in the school office at North Central that day.
Someone screamed in the hallway but didn’t sound hurt; it was a joy. Quickly the screams turned into outright cheers and people started running down the hallway. All the black students within earshot of the person who found out the verdict first were rejoicing. Someone came into the office and yelled out NOT GUILTY, and the office cheered. I didn’t…well, not OUTWARDLY. I cheered internally. It was the exact outcome I had hoped for, and it stings me to say this, but-
-I had no remorse for you at the time.
But hey, I was 16 if that soothes the bruise a bit.
The People vs. OJ show gave me a clearer view of the entire situation but if that wasn’t enough, a documentary followed (put on by a different station) that was just as captivating.
O.J.: Made in America was a five part documentary that included Simpson’s own voice, police tapes, private home videos and lots more information. Because it was a documentary, there were also interviews with people who were a part of the trial including Marsha Clark. The difference with this film was it explored and dissected race in America, particularly in LA at the time and related it all to Simpson, you and everything that transpired. It was pretty intense at times. Add to all of this I’m much older than sixteen now and more seasoned than I was then. I’ve been in an abusive relationship and if you’ve been around these blog parts long enough, you may know that I’ve almost died at the hands of a man I loved. I’ve had a gun pointed directly at me or more than one occasion. So as a survivor of domestic abuse, I see your relationship with OJ and your subsequent murder with an evolved way of thinking.
I’ve rambled long enough. I should say what I came to say.
We live in a fucked up society man.
There are hundreds of thousands of beautiful people with strong personalities that could light up the world if given the opportunity, but as much as we have them, we have evil spirited people; folks who only know hate and bigotry and create destruction in both their words and actions. Sometimes it’s a challenge to find the balance in it all but I have to believe it’s possible….right? Our country has spit on black people since they ripped my ancestors out of their sleep with knives and chains and stuffed their freedom on a big ass ship to bring them over to United States of Stolen Territory. Some were dumped in the ocean like discarded cattle carcasses during six-to-thirteen week voyage. They made them slaves to white laziness, raped them and killed them for fun. They pic-a-nigger’d my people and right now today, picnicking is something considered cool to do on a date. My people’s pain is our current vocabulary.
They stole from us, bombed us, wouldn’t let us be free even once we were. And more than any other havoc they could wreck on us, they killed us. Excuse me…”them”.
They killed them. Them = My people.
And time after time, they got away with it. They hunted us for sport, lynched us in front of public town halls and made sellable postcards out of it. White people wrote love notes and I miss you letters on the backs of our broken necks!! And there was no consequence – it was ALWAYS condoned. They even did interviews admitting to the gruesome ways of which they ended black lives. It should be noted the lynchings were hardly ever JUST the hanging of people. Often it involved beatings, getting shot or drowned or burned as well. Black death has always been inhumane. Fetuses have been cut from hanging black mother’s wombs to fall on the ground and be pierced with shotgun blasts.
It continued until it was illegal. But then their homes were stalked and set on fire. Their husbands were kidnapped and killed.
They were shot in their own driveways, in the back, by a scandalous coward.
Shot in the neck from across the street by a scandalous coward.
But as a race, my people have remained unbreakable. We have long been victims of a system that was not created to include us but that still prevails today. People in denial have spoken of how racism no longer exists or how these events are things so far in the past that no one should still be affected by them but I beg to differ. And I know you are wondering why I am saying all this to you, but I assure you it will all tie together in just a second. Racism is not something that halted in the 1960’s and only resurfaces when black people bring it up; racism never ended in the first place. Yes things have changed and many doors opened in the name of racial equality but our climate is just as dangerous and racially charged as it was in 1964. The only thing you need in order to keep racism alive is a family that is willing to pass down the tradition of hate to their offspring. My grandmother couldn’t vote. My mother was a kid when MLK was killed.
The year that O.J. Simpson went to trial (1995), the Rodney King verdict was still a fresh reminder for anyone who thought racism was a thing of the past that. No matter what you want to call it, this justice system doesn’t give a damn about black people and never has. Seeing the Rodney King tape all these years later still invokes the same gasp in my spirit. How a jury could acquit any of those officers can only be explained by saying #FuckBlackLives!
And now, twenty plus years later little has changed. Black men, women, and children are repeatedly being shot and killed by police and local citizens and their deaths are almost always justified in the eye of the law despite any video and/or witness accounts that tell a different story. The police shoot and kill us and put our children in harm’s way with no disciplinary action taken. The silent department oath must be shoot to kill all black people and children at will. Every argument used to against us has been proven to be useless in saving our lives. Respectability politics have yet to save our lives. I’m personally tired of marching and protesting and going to community meetings. None of what we say or do keeps us from being another hashtag or temporary trending story.
Throughout history, our families have been ripped apart and dismantled. Our heads of households stolen. Our men killed in cars and department stores. Our daughters can’t stand in alleys or sleep on couches and our sons can’t reach for their wallet, drive their car, sell cigarettes or CDs, steal from the bodega (like typical teenagers), they can’t play with toy guns, and they better not ask any questions.
It’s a sick cycle that we didn’t ask to be born into yet here we are. This has been the temperament of our country since before you or my arrival and I tell you, Nicole, it’s fucking exhausting.
I was inspired to write you a letter after I watched the final episode of the documentary series. As I said earlier, it was quite an intense watch. Not only did they heavily cover your relationship to OJ from start to end, but they also showed every graphic photo they had including pictures from the crime scene. I saw how he slashed your throat open and nearly decapitated you. I went to school for forensics with the hope that I would eventually work crime scenes and help solve cases. I can’t help but imagine the horror of the people who turned your defeated body over and found you nearly cut in half. It takes a lot of personal rage to run a knife across someone’s neck until its halfway cut off like that. They also showed Ron Goldman’s bloodied body, full of defense wounds and slumped over. There were photos from your collection that you took for evidence of beatings. They played some of your 911 calls and I could hear the terror in your voice when you spoke to the operators and told them he was gonna kill you. Then there was the cop interviewed that answered one of your calls for help who found you naked, hiding in the bushes outside the home you shared. What a terrible way to live.
It’s easy for people to sit back and wonder why you kept going back but I get it. We, victims of domestic abuse, tend to hope that the person we met and loved pre-violence will return to us, sans the monster. Most times, they promise us he will and we let our heart do the thinking for our brain. It takes a lot of willpower and courage to leave an abusive relationship for good and to start over, but after some time you managed to do it. You freed yourself from chains of needing to hide your face in public and call 911 but Nicole, were you still scared? Did you look over your shoulder at times? It was shown how OJ essentially stalked you and let you know he was watching by harassing you when you had company over. As you tried to rebuild your life and give your children a healthy childhood, I can’t help but think you had to still fear for yourself. That fateful day that your mother left her glasses at the restaurant that would lead Ron Goldman coming to your home, had you let your guard down? Were you feeling confident in yourself and your fresh start? Had O.J. given you a break in the crazy phone calls and relentless stalking?
What we know is you were brutally murdered by a savage with a vendetta against you and anyone within eyeshot of you. Your life was not taken by a serial killer or some crazed lunatic on a murderous rampage. It was very personal. It was one of the worst crime scenes I’ve ever seen and as someone with a semi-forensics background; I can honestly say I’ve seen my share of them via photos. Watching both the television series and then the documentary made me hurt for you in a way I didn’t when I was sixteen. It put a human to your face instead of a ‘white woman’, which is all I thought when I was a teenager. Now, all these years later, I relate to you as a woman. I hurt for the way your life was taken and the fear that probably touched your soul as it became harder to breathe. I know people who were shot and killed by the men they loved. I know what it’s like to lose someone to domestic violence, but it seems like the ones I know got off easily in comparison to you. You suffered, and I do believe that was the intent of your murderer. All the evidence pointed to OJ Simpson. Two different television shows with tons of reenactment and actual documents and videos, including home videos from when he first got back to his house after the trial was over, make it hard to see anyone else at the forefront of your murder.
I believe with all my heart that OJ Simpson is the person who stole your life. He played God in your marriage and again in your death. The OJ I learned of through these movies is not who I knew when I was cheering for him in high school. Remember, I didn’t know much about him as a persona. Today, I write this letter heavily saddened for you. My heart actually feels the same heaviness for you that I felt from April Willis, the last person I knew to lose her life to domestic violence. As a woman and a mother, you deserved your life. You deserved to still be here, to see your beautiful children grow up and to experience aging. There is no ‘reason’ you should be dead aside from loving the wrong man.
I 100% believe that O.J. Simpson plotted and planned to take your life and ultimately executed it with a perfect sloppiness. His hateful love for you controlled HIM so much that the adrenaline he felt from killing you wouldn’t allow him to even clean up after himself. It was so obvious and with the background of your relationship being taken into account, it was expected. Your sister expected it. But I think she thought you were free just like you did. I’m sorry that you died Nicole. I am sorry that you were not free.
I’m sorry that OJ’s selfish need to dictate your every move led to the ending of your life and I’m even sorrier for how it ended. No one should have to die like that. No one should be taken from this world while their kids are just feet away. You shouldn’t have had to look over your shoulder day in and out worrying about your safety. You weren’t allowed to just be; you had to live in fear. You didn’t get the opportunity to grow into all the potential that you had because your life was deemed unworthy of living. OJ declared himself judge, jury, and executioner of your story and he ended it at his choosing without so much as an apologetic gloss over his eyes. I think internally, he was happy. I think every day that he sat at the table during the trial he replayed what he did in his head confidently. He was proud of himself and the further the Dream Team got him from a guilty verdict, the more arrogant he was in his demeanor, confidence and proudness. And as a woman, as a survivor and even as a future stepmother, I hurt for the unceremonious way you were taken from this world.
I apologize for the violence and fear you experienced throughout your relationship with OJ Simpson that led to your ultimate death. I am sorry that your children were left motherless and then forced to live with the man that made them that way. I’m sorry OJ was abusive and crazy and that the demons (mental illness) he lived with in his head did not get the appropriate help that he needed. I’m sorry that we tell women to ‘get out’ of violent relationships but we abandon them after that. We judge them when they don’t leave, but we don’t take into account that leaving could still result in their murder. I’m sorry that as a country and a people, we have yet to figure out a true safe exit for women who are in fear of their lives. It’s common sense (IMO) that if a man is trying to kill you in the relationship, leaving won’t stop him either. Woman to woman, I’m sorry for a lot of things.
…but I’m not sorry he got off Not Guilty.
I would vote him not guilty today if I was on the jury. I’m not even sorry for feeling that way. I am sorry that we live in a society and a country where Black Lives don’t matter so much that we as a people could knowingly see this man killed you and still feel obliged to support him and champion for him to get off. I’m sorry that we live in a country where black lives have mattered so little that the entire black population of my high school flooded the hallways rife with happiness from the not guilty verdict. I am sorry that we all know we don’t matter here and that we must take our victories when they come, even at the expense of others.
I am sorry that we have been sacrificial lambs for this country since our bodies were being dumped in the ocean on the journey here. I am sorry for my ancestors who were chained together and lying on top of each other, covered in piss and feces, fear and pain. I am sorry for the whips that snatched the leftover scent of Africa from our skin that would never again heal right. I am sorry for the thousands of black women that gave birth to mixed race babies that were a product of rape. I’m sorry for the times our men couldn’t save and protect us and the times that we couldn’t do the same for them. I am sorry that Mike Brown was gunned down in the street like a wild animal and I am sorry that there needed to be instances such as marches on Washington, Voters Rights, sit-ins, protests, bus boycotts and white’s only fountains, restrooms and restaurants. I am sorry that black people have always been good enough to entertain, but never great enough to be human.
And for that, we cheered when OJ got off.
Our verdict-rejoicing inadvertently condoned your death and I am sorry that this is the type of country we occupy.
This letter might sound like an oxymoron but I believe that is the nature of where we live. Not enough people actively believe that black lives really matter. This country was built BY us but not FOR us or even with us in mind. We started as property and although we are not such anymore, we are treated with resentment because of it. We are given NIGGER status every time we step out of our houses and unable to return at night. Every time we are shot as we are in cars (Sam Dubose, Philando Castile, Deravis Rogers), and crowds (Rekia Boyd), and Walmarts (John Crawford) and parks (Tamir Rice), we are reminded that we that too many white people, we are still pic-a-niggers. I remember after O.J. got off for your murder, he was sued in civil court by both you and Ron’s families. The case was won on you all’s behalf and he was ordered to pay. According to the documentary, he would hide his incoming money so that it would not be reported and turned over to the families. His disrespect of you even in death was a direct parallel of the treatment black people get on a daily basis. I’m sorry that it was you chosen to be the lamb for us…but honestly, it was about time someone was.
I’m sorry that black families are broken and disrupted forever by untimely deaths and the only thing they offer us as a way of pacification is to give us a few million dollars that will be scaled down tremendously by taxes. O.J. Simpson was ordered to pay $25 Million dollars to your and Ron Goldman’s families for taking your lives. Our families (black families) are often awarded sums in the amounts of 2.5 million and sometimes four. **UPDATE: Sandra Bland: 1.9 Million settlement. Tamir Rice: 6 Million. Akai Gurley: 4.5 Million. Philip Coleman: 4.95 Million. That’s not even adding up to the 25 million Ms. Simpson and Mr. Goldman’s families received. ***UPDATE: Michael Brown’s (no officer indictment) family settled for 1.2 million. Philando Castille’s (officer found not guilty) mother just settled for 2 million. (updated 6.26.17)
Our lives are not valued here; not judicially or financially and I’m sorrier about that more than anything. I’m sorry we needed a win of some kind. But after Tulsa, OK and after the Philly bombings, and of course the lynchings, shootings, rapes, Emmitt Till and a list that continues literally through TODAY, we deserved and needed a win. We played nice for too long and waited for those in office to give a damn long enough to actually recognize there even is a problem, much less help us fix it. This was not something anyone would have wanted to happen, but since it did . . . the acquittal was merely an opportunity for us to stick the shoe on the other foot.
We needed O.J. to get off for murder. It’s sick. It’s sad. It’s unfortunate. It’s not something to be proud of. But as I look at the climate of this country over time and including the here and now, and as sorry as I am that your life was taken in the manner of which it was, I am still not sorry that OJ got off.
I am sorry that he disappointed us and wouldn’t go away. He was supposed to tuck his guilty ass in the corners of society and find silence and solitude in his victory. If this were a case on Law & Order, he would have been found guilty. All the evidence pointed at him from every single angle. He should NOT have gotten away with murder but the elements of a corrupted legal system, a police force wild with badge carrying racists and a community desperate for their own justice set him up to win. We convinced ourselves that he didn’t kill you. We ignored the taped phone calls and the pictures of your swollen and bruised face. We pretended that all the blood droppings that tested positive for you and Ron, found in his home and truck, were merely a coincidence. We as a people dismissed your death and in return, OJ was supposed to disappear. He instead remained the same arrogant asshole he had always been and it caught up to him.
Honestly, he let us down. He wrote that tacky, insensitive book and ran through the black community making a mockery of himself and us as he tried to refresh his fifteen minutes. We were the people who celebrated with him and were proud of the Dream Team. Everyone bought an ‘if it don’t fit, you must acquit’ t-shirt and wore Not Guilty hats in honor of a man who didn’t even identify with us prior to this. As sick as I know it sounds, we were subconsciously and quite temporarily happy. FINALLY, the white people would get a taste of what it’s like to bury a loved one and no one be held accountable despite the obvious guilt. They would learn what it’s like to have the system be a massive FAILURE for them. That feeling that we never get to rid ourselves of –
-the feeling that your life and your loved one’s lives don’t matter, had been reciprocated. Having all the signs point to one person and their unlawful transgressions and that person be able to smile and walk away free from the courtroom was an infliction that up until that trial, was most likely to affect the black community. FINALLY, we got a win on our side.
I’m sorry this is the country we live in.
I’m sorry this is the letter I’m writing to your memory. I don’t support abuse and I don’t condone muder. Your children are adults now and O.J. Simpson is in prison. He will get the CHANCE of parole next year, but it’s a safe bet that he won’t get it. OJ has been punished for the murders he committed by way of a different, lesser crime; he will likely do every hour of his sentence. The trial is 20 years old but I’m sure your family as well the Goldman’s still feels the weight of your absence and the hurt of the not guilty verdict.
I’m really sorry that you lost your life, Nicole.
You absolutely did NOT deserve to. You were a beautiful woman. I champion for women of all races – for our equality, our safety, and our respect. I would champion for you too. I have championed for you.
I wish you wouldn’t have answered the door that night. I wish your mom had have remembered her glasses. I wish your children still had their mother here. They should have grown up WITH you; not memories of you.
I’m sorry. I really am.
But I’m not sorry O.J. Simpson got away with murder.
It was a win for the black community. A disgusting, filthy, blood win. A win we would have preferred to not want so badly. But it was a mirror of the type of loss and subsequent failure of justice that we experience far too often. Just ask the mothers of Philando Castile. Alton Sterling. Remarley Graham. Freddie Grey. LaTasha Harlin. Akai Gurley. Trayvon. Tamir. Jordan. Michael. John. Keith. Bettie.Kevin.Leroy. James. Roy. Thomas Shipp. Miguel. Tiara. Sandra. Cornelius. Chandra. Jamar. Richard. Stephen. Michael Lee. Alonzo.
The list is literally endless. There are so many names of unarmed, unjustified deaths of black people that I just started using first names so I could write this overdue blog faster.
For that reason alone,
As sorry as I am that you lost your life, I’m not sorry that the white race spent a little time in our tap shoes. I’m not sorry that there was a sacrifice.
I’m not sorry that O.J. Simpson got away with murder.
Not when Alton Sterling just spent the night in the ground for the first time last night. And it won’t be much longer before someone else joins him –
-scratch that. Philando was the next day. When I started this letter, I intended it to speak on behalf of me and my people.
But now, I think I will let it just speak for me.
And I ain’t sorry.
*****9.28.16, 4:53PM – THERE HAVE BEEN AT LEAST 5 NEW NAMES ADDED SINCE i WROTE THIS. IT’S WAY MORE THAN FIVE; I’M JUST LYING TO MYSELF. POINT IS, THE LIST IS STILL GROWING….AND I’M STILL NOT SORRY. #nOTgUILTY