The imagery of the poem is vivid and memorable, from the ‘mouse’ that ‘behind the mouldering wainscot shriek’d’ or the ‘blue fly’ that ‘sung in the pane’. We will fight for you.So begins this early poem, published in 1830, which ‘arose to the music of Shakespeare’s words’ (according to Tennyson) – the words in question being taken from Measure for Measure, in which ‘the dejected Mariana’ dwells ‘at the moated grange’, having been forsaken by Angelo, who promised to marry her but then broke his promise. I don't need a video to know exactly what happened. Black bodies being hunted isn't a sport to be viewed. The fears don't get dulled with each murder, but rather swell and surge.Ī twin. We are guilty by virtue of the melanin that blesses us. Fears every Black American faces every moment of every day.ĭe-escalation is never attempted for us.
Then I'll lock myself in the bathroom and weep. I'll hug him extra tight, trying my hardest not to let on that anything is wrong. I'll hide the tears as I greet my baby boy later this morning. Imagine having to beg for your right to exist-and a country having the audacity to portray that demand as radical. Not only did Walter Wallace Jr.'s mom experience every Black mother's greatest fear on Monday night, but she also faced the unspeakable horror of watching her son murdered in front of her.īecause his mother didn't matter to them. I experience heart palpitations when I think about "The Talk," and know the time is near. Seven years later, that question looms large, and the fear grows more acute.Įach comment on how big my son is growing reminds me of when my sweet son transitions from being viewed as a cute little boy to a threat. What was I doing, I wondered? What if I was having a boy-how would I protect him?
Because sadly-appallingly-this is a standard part of life in America. To be honest, I can't remember which killing it was. Call it Mother's Intuition.Īs I learned of another state-sanctioned execution of a Black man during my pregnancy, I held my stomach. When I was pregnant with my firstborn, I didn't find out whether I was having a boy or a girl.īut in my heart, I had no doubt that I was carrying a boy.
Being a Black mother in America is a progression of continuing heartbreak.
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