Why I’m grieving Black people I’ve never met

I woke up feeling sore. I’d spent the day before tense, mourning the loss of people I don’t even know.

It’s hard seeing images of people who look like you, your family and friends being dehumanized and brutalized over and over again. There is a psychic cost to witnessing this kind of trauma repeatedly.

Even when I try to avoid this content, it infiltrates my social media timelines, the news I read and casual conversations. Especially during quarantine. It can feel like the walls of my apartment are closing in. The phone, my laptop and TV aren’t safe; they send constant reminders that “we,” the elusive Black “we,” are something less than human.

My non-Black friends are silent on the issues that keep me up at night. I struggle to reconcile our love with the empathy or support that never comes. I cyclically Google Image search a Martin Luther King Jr. quote, “In the end we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.” No comfort is found there.

My days are spent on Zoom calls, willing myself to focus — mind clouded with faces that look a lot like mine, “I can’t breathe”s and the soundtrack of gunshots. I’m exhausted.

Regardless of geographic or socioeconomic differences, all the Black faces for reasons that escape me resonate. My heart breaks with every “Justice For” hashtag and for the mothers on the news crying for their children.

The insidious “casual” racism we experience is one thing, it’s an old faithful. You learn to build thick skin from being followed around in stores, your longtime neighbour always looking frightened when she sees you or friends saying, “my parents won’t let me date a Black guy, but don’t worry, they love you Orelie,” as though this is a compliment.

But the images, the constant stream of images of blood soaked T-shirts, Black bodies covered in orange tarps or knees on necks that look strangely similar to that uncle you haven’t seen in a while, are grief strickening.

But unlike typical bereavement, no flowers or food platters will come. There is no outpouring of texts and hugs showing support. And many times when I do try to express my complicated grief, I’m met with misunderstanding or thinly veiled racism sighting

“Black on Black crime” or property damage with a passion and righteous indignation that is never reserved for the victims of anti-Black violence at the centre of these discussions.

Again, I’m exhausted. Convincing people of your humanity is a fulltime job. One I never applied for and cannot seem to quit.

I’ve been making it a point to check on the Black people in my life to see how they are holding up. I find I’m never alone, there is a palpable collective trauma and fatigue.

But we press on, shedding tears and angry words for perfect strangers who look a lot like what’s reflected in the mirror.