Things are different now. We live in the age of information technology. We have the visuals, as traumatic as they can be, that connect people who look like me to the immediacy of Black reality. It is up close and personal and when George Floyd calls out for his mother my mother’s heart
fills with rage
beats with anguish
is crushed by compassion
greater than at any other time.
And that, my friends, doesn’t mean that I felt no rage or anguish or compassion before.
I marched with 20,000 in Forsyth County or with thousands on King day. Nor that I felt no anguish about health systems, economic systems, and justice systems that do not value Black lives.
It has always been an evil to be resisted. Always a place where my heart ached. Always required my actions and words in response.
But when I heard George Floyd call out for his mother I was filled with a power that screamed, “Do not hurt my child!”
That horrific video called for a fight in ways never before plumbed.
It became mine in ways I never before understood.
Before that moment I was committed to struggles for justice. I was willing to put my self on the line from protest marches to confronting racism in conversations and institutions. My values, based on my understanding and experience of Godde, are justice based. I cannot love my neighbor as myself if I do not love you, love your life.
But something changed. A child called out for his mother and I heard it.
And he was my child. Every mother’s child.
And my mother’s heart rages
nestled within the raging mother heart of Godde.
And I am screaming to the world
to the entrenchment of systemic racism
to my neighbors
to my enemies
that every Trayvon Marin
every Anthony Hill
every George Floyd
every Breonna Taylor
who dies at the hands of racists-
is my child, too.
I scream from deep within the raging Mother heart of Godde:
“Do not touch my beloved child!”