COMMENTARY: Black trauma is a mother, shut
yo mouth.
It brews in the belly and feeds on a pile of historical
woes. It binds to the angst of the ancestors and wallows in the misery of
memories that refuse to go away. Trauma is the price Black people pay for
believing in the American Dream.
I’ve witnessed an eruption of Black trauma in public view.
Black people are accustomed to the uncontrollable display of horns locked to
make it all go away. The sadness is not that it happens. The gloom is that it
happens far to often, and that it happens because Black folks carry their rage
deep in the soul.
I’m troubled that it often happens in public view. It means
something different when white people witness what happens in Black spaces. People
are quick to shame Black people when there is no context to explain the what
and why behind all that pain. Having to explain what happened magnifies the trauma.
Black trauma hinders patience and the ability to process
beyond hurt feelings. It takes years of training and therapy to learn to
communicate without feelings controlling what is said. I know it when I see it,
but it’s hard helping others to understand the pain behind the madness.
It's what makes this journalism work so difficult. I’m
often compelled to translate the significance of actions beyond the obvious
story. It’s not just the facts, ma’am. The who, what, when, where, and why of
the story comes with bunches of unresolved issues packed in an exploding Black
body.
The gifts of white privilege is not having
to explain the underlying madness. In reporting and writing, I often notice the
mindset of a person “bout to lose their mind, up in here, up in here.” Saying
that is another cultural affirmation inserting feelings of folks who know the
lingo of the Prophet DMX.
There are layers to distress packed in by decades of frustration.
The disappointment of a job denied. The heartache of love vanished. The agony
of being misunderstood due to not being fully seen.
It’s what makes an election more than a political option.
The power of privilege is winning doesn’t change much. Privilege grants losers
a chance to tray again, while the pain of Black trauma adds new tiers to a load
of misery. Disappointment bankrupts a person weighed heavy by Black trauma. It
increases the rate of lapping among people already miles behind.
Catching up is a dream. Being forgotten and dismissed are
the regiment of people accustomed to losing. Faith in something better,
something different, is overshadowed by internal voices screaming “none of it
matters.”
Waiting is a wish. Maybe. Could it be different? This time.
Can we?
Another layer to unmeasured depression. Another episode of
the continuing drama related to what white people can’t see. Another day of
potentially unfulfilled hope in a sea of cosmic disproportion.
As my fingers cling to the keys on my laptop computer, a
wave of disappointed Black faces gawp at me in preparation of the next observation
of dreams deferred. The risk to swollen misery seeps between my fingertips and
the computer keys.
Dear God, please offer breaths of freedom within this patent
cycle of Black misery.
Black trauma. It’s hard to explain it. Some people can’t
see it.
It’s a mother, shut yo mouth.
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