A letter to my black husband.
As the events following the murder of George Floyd unfolded, my husband and I tried to process. Both of us struggled to find words to share with family, friends, colleagues, neighbors, so my husband asked me to start writing. I realized that writing to him was the only thing that felt right at that moment.
Thank you baby for allowing me to share it.
You.
I look at you. My strong, beautiful, patient, kind, nerdy black man. I look at you and I see everything I love about you, about our life…and I think, how could anyone hate you? How could anyone possibly find your life so insignificant, so unworthy of dignity, respect, or justice?
There are some days together when I forget for a moment the reality of the world and society we live in. Just for a moment…and then you’ll leave to go to the grocery store, and you’re out just a little bit longer than I thought you would be, and the pit in my stomach begins to ache… …or we’ll be driving in rural Texas (or really anywhere) and we’ll find ourselves negotiating which one of us in the driver’s seat will provide safer optics…or we’ll be walking on the street holding hands when a cop car will drive by and your fingers will tense ever so slightly around mine…or, we’ll spend days like we did this past weekend completely consumed in the news cycle covering yet another senseless death of a black person at the hands of police officers.
The other night, I asked you what you hoped for in all of this. You said simply, “I hope the white people stay this angry.” I asked you why, you said, “because their voice matters and ours doesn’t.”
Over the years the moments imagining you truly being free, safe, equal, and our life being fair, have grown even more fleeting. This is the reality. And this is not OK.
This moment in time and many, MANY moments leading to where we are today is personal, but this is also not about me. This is about you and every person of color. This is about our children. They will be black. I know that. I also know that means that in our current system they’re not safe. This makes me feel helpless and scared. And if I’m being truly honest with myself the sheer weight of that feeling makes me believe I could be capable of the type of violence and rage demonstrated by so many hurt humans the last few days. I get it. You oppress a community for long enough, revolution ensues. That’s not news. That’s history. Enough is enough.
The other night, I asked you what you hoped for in all of this. You said simply, “I hope the white people stay this angry.” I asked you why, you said, “because their voice matters and ours doesn’t.” Those words, and the pain and suffering behind them is unacceptable. And while I hate admitting this inevitable truth, I think its important to do so.
This is not a fun story to tell, but it’s real. And I truly believe the stories we share, however disheartening, painful, and uncomfortable, help us understand the task at hand, and for me, the power and responsibility that comes along with privilege I have as one of those white voices.
Fortunately, my voice is not the only privilege I have. This moment, and frankly, the downstream effects of COVID-19 has made me even more aware of that. So I’m donating a portion of my stimulus check (thank you US government!) to Black Lives Matter.
I have been privileged enough to stay employed and relatively comfortable during this pandemic, and this organization and the people they support need more than I ever will. This is what I will do now, and I will continue to do more. I will listen. I will continue to learn. I will challenge the status quo. I will push myself, my company, my students, my community to do better. And at the end of the day, it is my hope that my husband’s hope comes true. That we all remain motivated enough to act on all of this. Angry? Good. Please stay that way.
I see you baby. I hear you. And I will fight for you.
