WHY I CAN’T TALK ABOUT #ALTONSTERLING… (OR ANY OF YOUR OTHER BLOODY HASHTAGS)

Neither is prejudice, or ignorance. Both of those seem to have more room for changing quickly, but the deep roots of racism strangle the tree of change that begs to grow. And it isn’t just poisoning people who are white and perpetuating it- its poisoning people of color too.

The war on non-white lives in the US, specifically young black and brown lives, seems to grow into an even bigger and uglier monster as the days go by… And its not just police brutality. Its the profiling of anyone who looks like they might be middle eastern by TSA. Its the people who promote Trump because they want America to be white again- I mean, GREAT again. Its the KKK rallies in our cities, and Trump saying that we need a president who is going to “take care of” the African American community. The more I hear of it, the more I see it play out, the more it affects me. I’ve found myself weary. And don’t… don’t ask me why I’m weary.

I know that in past posts I’ve talked about how I wonder if my (someday) children will be thrown on the ground, choked to death like Freddie Gray. I’ve wondered if they will be shot for wearing a hoodie. I’ve wondered if I raise them right if they will become a testimony of God’s goodness through protection, or if they will only live long enough to be a light to their friends, and I will have to become the testimony of forgiveness….

I thought that I was able to dig around that seed of fear… and though it left some pieces behind, it became more of a pith of pain. I cannot write or talk about things like this anymore without coming to tears… My heart has been crumbling in ways that I don’t fully have words for. I can’t begin to even try to explain… and I have been trying.

By Kristina Flour

its poisoning people of color too.

And I feel poisoned. I took a break from social media ( I will write a post about that later ), so I could hit the reset button. Not only am I bombarded by all these messages constantly of what a woman, wife, and female body should be- but as a person of color I am constantly reminded through social media of the current death toll of lives that didn’t seem to matter, and of the people who support those deaths…  

I want to talk about these injustices, I want to believe that hard conversations are worth it and that my voice can make a difference… But it is draining and utterly exhausting. If your reading this, do you know what I’m talking about?

I found myself in a meeting a few weeks ago- where the topic was about diversity and being inclusive culturally. The night before, I was realizing how exhausted I was, and how emotionally, mentally, and physically draining it is to engage in such conversations in this day and age, as a person of color. I had already put writing my books on hold…. but I wanted to be excited and ready to engage in this conversation. I have always had a heart for the underdog, ever since I was a kid. And as I found myself in college, I realized how I had this heart for social justice- and to see God work in his wondrous ways on behalf of others… Its been years since I discovered that, though I feel not long enough for me to become disillusioned by that clicking “aha” moment. Yet, here I am: feeling like a husk of what should have been, because the world is such an ugly place, and it is beating me and several of my people, my peers, my comrades into the dirt.

When the meeting came, I was not saying much because no words would come out. No words could come out. And I felt that if any words did come out, that my crumbling heart would crack and the tears would start; That the grief and mourning that I know so many American people- including myself- have been feeling… I was afraid that they would spill out all at once and become a mix of guttural groans, prayers, cries, and pleas. You know- all those things that systemic racism calls “unprofessional”.
And thats the thing… this meeting was in a safe place! Lately, I am finding that even those places that I call safe have been called into question… I think of Charleston. I think of #WhosBurningBlackChurches. I also think of social media and how it has served as a platform to turn anyone’s public pain into a private opinion or lessons in politics. I honestly don’t have the energy to be angry. I think I am only one in a sea of many who feel that way to actually say it. I am poisoned and exhausted- dizzy and sick from all of the trauma. That is what this is: Trauma.

“Looks like we have another shooting…”

“#AltonSterling?”

“Yeah. At first I thought he was a cop that was shot. I just read the whole story…”

“I was tipped off by an instagram post last night by Propaganda. I couldn’t finish the story. I looked it up… but I can’t finish it. Its too much for me.”

My husband told me it was ok. I didn’t have to talk about Alton. You see, I told him that morning in depth about why I have to stop working on my book. I remember at one point trying not to cry and telling him,

“It just hurts, it hurts too much. The more I dig into myself to write, the harder it gets to talk about these things. I don’t want to keep stripping my emotions raw. It sucks because I care deeply about these things, and I want to talk about them, but I need to protect myself too.”

its poisoning people of color too. I haven’t even been able to watch Jesse Williams speech from the BET awards yet. The poison has gotten to me… and so I am left with trying to separate these sources of pain from my identity- and to be honest I am not even sure I am supposed too. Is one living under oppression because of ones racial or ethnic identity as a person of color able to spring themselves from the systematic oppression that has been building for well over a century? It’s left me looking to the heavens for the antidote- and I don’t think this one comes with painkillers. I see so many of my lighter skinned American brothers and sisters in Christ saying things like “free yourself” or “God free’s the oppressed” and “If you would just take your identity in Christ Jesus, this wouldn’t be a problem” , and though  I think many of them don’t have bad intentions, the ignorance is like pouring scalding water on top of an already existing third degree burn. I’m realizing that I’ve got some healing to do, and it’s not going to happen overnight. It’s going to take a lot of God and a lot less of me to find the kind of healing I need. And that’s ok.

Maybe you are reading this and you feel totally lost and like this doesn’t make any sense… This post isn’t for you. Truth be told, I wrote this mostly for myself.

I also wrote this for anyone who may be feeling the same; In hopes that the people out there that I know are quietly  (or maybe even loudly) suffering. For the people who had to take a mental health day because another black life lost made it too hard to get out of bed this morning. For the people who are growing weary in their activism and are not sure that anyone understands… For the people who feel the grief, didn’t know it was grief, and are trying to figure out what to do with it.

I wrote this because I am better with the pen (keyboard), than I am with spoken words, so that anyone feeling confused by my jibber jabber and lack of vocal participation in conversations about race, would maybe begin to understand my silence.

I wrote this because it’s the last piece in a long while I think I will be able to muster the mental power to write about a subject like this… I’m not giving up completely, just taking a very long break.  This is me tapping out, telling anyone who can keep running the race to keep running, so that I can jump back in when someone else need a break. This is me being raw and real, because I told myself I would start being positive on social media and filling my media with Jesus and positives in an attempt to heal myself… but you have to acknowledge something is broken and busted before you can start fixing it.

This is why I can’t talk about #AltonSterling…. Or any of your other bloody hashtags. I need to find some healing for myself first.