Death Is History Too

Dear Diary, 

When kids are asked what they want to be when they grow up, most will say, police officers, firefighters, detectives, basic, generic answers. They don’t think about making big changes in the world, not all the time. And they most certainly don’t think about dying. How their time in the world will end. Will they be remembered? Will the way they die make a change? Because they’re kids. We're kids. We shouldn’t have to worry about those things. We shouldn’t have to think about possibly never coming back home to sleep in our beds. Never come back home to scribble on the walls of the perfectly themed bedroom that we begged for. Never come back home to pet the dog we named after our favorite candy. Never come back home to cuddle with the stuffed animals that were convinced to talk to one another when we leave the room. But I'm forced to think about those things when I see George Floyd on the TV in the living room. When that same image is portrayed throughout history, with a different name. A different life story but the same ending. A different shade but the same color. A different cop, but the same casket. A different- well, I think you get the point.  

I stood in the hallway for a long eight minutes and forty-six seconds. I’ve never seen a dead body before, but I feel like seeing him already dead would’ve been better than watching him die. Watching him cry. Feeling my soul, leaving my body as he took his final breath. 

Diary. 

I. 

Watched. 

Someone 

Die. 

That is a historical event. But the sad part is, that in ten years he'll probably be forgotten. Just another name added to the list called black history. Well, black dead people, because black history month doesn’t actually talk about those things. Those people. Those hurting. Those kids. Those families. Those broken hearts. And forget ten years, give it ten months, ten weeks, ten days. 

My mom asked me how I felt about it and I said it made me sad. But that's the understatement of the year. I was sad, hurt, broken, and scared. Terrified. What if that was my dad? My brother? And I don’t’ say these things to my friends because they'll think I'm being dramatic. But my whole existence is dramatic. Living while black is a task, a test, a burden, a challenge. But I didn’t tell her that. How could I? It's not her fault that I’m black and telling her that will make it seem like I'm blaming her. It's crazy how I even have to put up a wall with my family. 

My mom went into her room and called my dad right after she turned the TV off. She thinks I couldn’t hear the muffled cries behind the closed door. I could. I could hear her heart breaking with every sob. The fear in her shaky voice as she told my dad what happened. The choice words she used to describe her pain. I definitely shouldn’t have heard that. But I also shouldn’t have had to see someone's cause of death be their skin tone. I shouldn’t have to live in a world like that. We shouldn’t have to live in a world like that. But, *sarcastic jazz hands* here we are. 

My little sister Maya is six. The same age as Gianna Floyd. My parents told me not to tell her what was going on, so I won’t. But I think she should know. There's no point in trying to guard and protect her when society will undo that before she hits middle school, right? When she could be drowned like Emmett or shot like Trayvon, or now, a new way, choked like George. Those sound like they could be chapters in a history book, or, maybe a novel. Something fictional or not as serious, because history books don’t actually mention things like that. 

Last week, we had a project where we had to take care of an egg and see if we could help it “survive.” Cutting up the fabric to make a blanket for my make-believe child was so much fun. Pretending to feed it, change its diaper, normal stuff, made me happy. But now, seeing the way someone’s dad, someone’s husband, someone’s son, was killed...I don’t want kids. I don’t want to see my child's name scrolling across the screen. I don’t want my grandchild to have to go up to an open casket. To take a seat next to their crying siblings. To have to act strong, when inside they are shattered. Like I am right now. 

And when we go back to school, will the teachers talk about it? Will they ask us how we feel? No. Of course not. Because they don’t care about the students. They want to give us education but at the end of the day, when you look like me, how far will education take you, when people are literally killing us every day. But only what gets recorded is for the world to see. I can't tell my friends this either, because they don't care. And they won't be doing it on purpose either. But if you don’t have to live through it, you can't see it. You only see the surface level and there's so so much more. 

But when we go to school tomorrow, I'm going to bring it up. I may be a kid, a small middle schooler, but I can make a change. Or at least I can try. And the next time someone asks me what I want to be when I grow up, I think I'll say a change maker. I don’t know how I'm going to do it yet, but I will. I promise. 

I have to go now, my mom is calling me down for dinner...and tonight when we say our prayers, I’m going to pray for George Floyd’s family. It’s the first time I’m going to say something like that, but I’m sure it won’t be the last. 

Sincerely, 

Lia James