Black Americans just want to breathe freely
I’ve experienced — either first-hand or vicariously — black men being killed simply because of the color of their skin
I enrolled in college in Petersburg in 1964 during the Civil Rights Movement. I participated in the marches, protests and sit-ins while lying with a straight face my non-involvement to my very worried parents. I was frightened by police dogs, spat upon and hauled into a precinct.
Through the years, I experienced either first-hand or vicariously blacks, especially our men, being killed simply because of an extra dose of pigmentation. I have seen the slogans change through the decades from “We Shall Overcome” to “Black Power” to “Driving While Black” to
“Black Lives Matter” and many more.
With systemic racism peeking from behind a white sheet or being told “Nigger, go home” it was the norm for us to teach our sons to play basketball with one eye on the ball and the other on the patrolman cruising the neighborhood. We discouraged them from purchasing a decent car and to never, ever question the cop who pulls them over. We tried to keep funds stashed away for a lawyer.
Foolishly, in recent years, we let our guard down. Foolishly we thought federal laws, affirmative action, cell phones with cameras, professional sports and Barack Obama had made it easier for us to breathe. Foolishly, we thought things were changing.
Wrong, again. For black males, the crime of the times is not making a pass at a white woman. No, my brothers, today simply breathing can buy you your own 6 feet of social distancing so restricting no governor can change it. You won’t need a mask, but your momma will certainly see to it that you wear a handsome shirt and tie.
COVID-19 is not our greatest fear. Eventually corona will subside; science and common-sense health practices will prevail. What is taking the life out of us is beyond science and immune to logic. What is killing us — as a race, as a nation — is unadulterated hatred.
My mother used to say that you can’t make somebody love you. But, Lord, Momma, can’t we at least get them to tolerate me?
Hate is a virus in its own right with no cure this side of heaven. Hatred is a hereditary disease that attacks the brain causing its victims to believe that they have the right to mistreat another person. It moves to the lungs, making it difficult to expand one’s thinking and cutting off oxygen to an already feeble mind. Hate becomes contagious when it reaches the heart where it attacks the good left in the victim and contaminates everyone it touches.
So, how does this Hatred-19 manifest itself? It grows when the Department of Justice becomes the Department of Just Us; when a young man running for his health ends up running for his life; when a black football player bends his knee and loses his job while a white policeman bends his knee and takes a life.
At one time, we fought for the right to vote or to sit at a lunch counter. We used to beg to get into a good school or live in decent housing. We preached and prayed about being treated equally, longing for justice and respect.
Foolishly, we believed the hype. Now we know better. So we ask just one last thing.
Could those afflicted with the disease of hate do one humanitarian thing before your demise? Stand up, put your hand over your ultra-conservative heart and salute the American flag that you believe only you fought and died for.
Could you please just stand up for nine minutes and take your knee off our necks? Could you please just allow us to breathe?
Maurice Connor Taylor is a mother of two, a grandmother and a great-grandmother. She is a resident and native of Portsmouth, a retired Norfolk educator and active in her church and community.