Tonight’s blog is a guest post from my youngest, Michal “MJ” Jones.
It has been a trying few weeks for many reasons, and I feel the weight of it in my bones and spirit. A short two weeks ago, I was on my way to St. Louis for my annual visit to my father’s house for the holiday. That Monday, the long-awaited decision on whether to indict officer Darren Wilson in the killing of unarmed Black teenager Mike Brown, was to be announced. As I arrived in the airport just a few minutes prior, I could feel the tension entering the cells of my body. My father and I sat in silence as we drove home, listening intently to the radio.
“…no probable cause exists…” was all I needed to hear before I felt my heart sink, tears brimming at the corners of my eyes, jaw tensing. I felt my father’s calm, sighing eyes on me. He was used to it, expecting it. We drove up to the house to find my six-year-old brother standing in the window, waving enthusiastically as we approached and running toward the front door. I smiled sadly and held back tears, knowing in my bones that his small brown body is not protected nor valued in this country.
And still we rise.
As I fell into non-restful sleep, violent images of lynching and gunshots and the horrors my people have faced for centuries haunted my dreams. I woke feeling a hollowness in my chest that I knew to be collective pain; ancestral pain. Still, I rose to spend a quiet holiday with my family, knowing that they are all diamonds in my heart, even if their lives mean nothing to countless others.
It takes a great strength to push back against the messages recent events send to young people of color: “You are not enough.” I am grateful for the resilience in my spirit, and in the spirits of those around me. Yesterday, I forced myself up and out of the door to attend a Black-organized, Black only peaceful protest occupying the Rockridge neighborhood of Oakland, which is predominantly white and upper-middle class. We peacefully “took over” a number of local businesses, reading off dozens of names of Black people whose lives had been claimed by police brutality:
“Tamir Rice, 12 years old,” shouts out one of the organizers.
“Ashe,” responds the group. Amen, or, so be it.
“Michael Brown, 18 years old,” shouts another organizer.
“Ashe,” responds the group.
Yesterday’s action provided a much-needed release for me and countless others; a space for healing with and for each other and to put to action all that we have been holding in. There were no broken windows, fires, or other non-peaceful acts for the media to distort; there were chants, marches, and strong voices decrying the injustice and violence.
As we moved along, I was comforted to see the amount of support from onlookers, who clapped their hands, joined in on songs or chants, or beeped their car horns and raised a fist in solidarity. Although this work will never be done and the road to freedom is long, I have to believe that people are starting to wake up. What courage, strength, and resilience it takes even to get up in the morning – let alone to continually push against the forces that constantly seek to annihilate us.
And still we rise.
I am in deep gratitude for the organizers of the action, who created and maintained a space for Black voices to speak out and support one another. I am grateful for the sacrifices that my ancestors, grandparents, and parents have made to create a safer and better life for myself and my siblings. I am grateful for the strength Black people have to rise again, and again, and again, and again in the face of the violence and oppression against our bodies and spirits.
I am still learning what my place is in this movement to end injustice and oppression – for a long time, I was convinced that my shy and soft-spoken nature meant that I did not have one. I do always know how I will show up, only that, as the chant goes, it is my duty:
“It is our duty to fight for our freedom,
It is our duty to WIN,
It is our duty to fight for our freedom,
We have nothing to lose but our chains.”
Ashe, may it be so.
