Life in Words

“America eats its babies, it eats the youth”- Tupac Shakur

The thrum of the engine echoed in my chest as the truck raced towards me. My feet were plastered to the pavement. I clutched and cradled my belly instinctively to protect my baby. There was no way for me to walk to the end of the crosswalk in time, despite already being in the middle of it. I watched as the tan truck sped in my direction. The crescendo of the engine radiated through my bones as its driver accelerated. They were trying to hit me. They were trying to kill me and my baby.

My name pounded in my ear, as my husband screamed out to me, but I was frozen in place. I had nowhere to go, but I had to move, or I would die.  Still in the road, I quickly shuffled three steps backwards. Wind whipped around my head as the truck zoomed through the spot where I had been standing a few seconds ago. My husband raced to my aid, to get me to the end of the crosswalk. Breathlessly, we made it to the sidewalk.

 It was a Sunday. We were crossing the street to get to church. The drive there had been safe. The morning had been quiet, there was no traffic, and yet, I was almost killed while crossing an empty street. I was eight months pregnant. 

I knew the reason why, but every moment that passed after, I pondered the same questions repeatedly, as we often do in situations like this: Was it my fault? Did he see me? Did I cross too early? Did he not see the crosswalk’s lights flashing? Why did he speed up? Did he not see that I was heavily pregnant? Why couldn’t he see me?

I let my mind wander as if I didn’t know the answer to each one. I wanted to believe that people were better. I wanted to believe that people were not capable of such ugliness.  But I had already known about the horrific things that white supremacists were capable of. I witnessed it happen to someone earlier that year, who had called out to his mother before he took his last breath. knew that the core of racist delusion was to destroy Black futures. I knew that there were many things that people could not do safely while Black, walking, running, jogging, sleeping in your home, playing loud music, taking care of your neighborhood, crossing the street, putting the truth in a book, everything, anything, nothing at all, breathing. 

As the truck left me behind, I investigated the driver’s window. I could see the open-mouthed smile on his face, as his head bobbed up and down rhythmically. He was laughing. He thought that it was funny. I got a quick glimpse into the passenger side and saw a woman. She sat stoically and motionless. There was no look of shock or remorse on her face. Their faces will forever be engrained in my memory.

This moment still haunts me now. I feel the rage. I feel the weight of pain in my stomach, knowing that in that moment, I was not in control of my life, nor my daughters.’ As a first-time parent, I learned to live with the notion of always being on the cusp of living and losing. This is the reality of being a Black parent of a black child, in an America that consistently shows us that it would rather carry us to our graves than cradle us. White supremacist delusion keeps us on edge. 

In the wake of the horrific amount children who have been, lost or whose bodies have been harmed at the hands of white supremacists, we as parents are left with the difficult challenge of coping with targets on our backs and our children’s backs. We try to survive, teach them the ways we learned to survive, and pray that it doesn’t happen to us, or our children. We grimace through the pain of knowing that the system wants to devour our babies, as we try to stay in our own bodies.

 Each day we carry them on our shoulders, hoping that they will reach for their highest and wildest dreams, hoping that they make it. It is our love for them that carries us through our rage and our fears. It is our hope for our babies that keeps us walking to the other side. It is our love for them that allows us to choose joy in a country that would rather see our bodies be destroyed. Black parents have been tasked with the seemingly impossible task of keeping ourselves and our babies from the ugliness of this world.