View from My Eyes: A Collection of Thoughts and Emotions
Rummaging through memories and trying not to cry about everything
The following is a collection of sentiments and thoughts accumulated since the beginning of the year. I reflect on the position my father and I hold in this society and explore the questions I have been asking myself as of late. When do we lose innocence? When can we no longer live ignorantly and face the truths that lie bare in our past? When do we become adults? When do we hold responsibility for the world?
“The South believed an educated Negro to be a dangerous Negro. And the South was not wholly wrong; for education among all kinds of men always has had, and always will have, an element of danger and revolution, of dissatisfaction and discontent. Nevertheless, men strive to know.”- W.E.B Debois.
I was 16 when this country showed me its truth. I remember coming outside to the patio of our southern ranch house. The cool breeze kissed my skin as I made my way to my father, who was clutching his phone with a white grip. His eyes did not leave the screen as he relayed what he was reading. He told me a Black man was killed a couple of counties over. He was on a morning jog that devolved into a five-minute death race with three White men. He was shot three times. 12-gauge shotgun. I watched a doe cross our lawn as silence fell over us. I sat stunned, not knowing how to respond.
Our elders train us to become accustomed to tragedy. Get used to evil. So when it sneaks up on us on a morning run, our chances of survival rise. Don’t talk back to the police. Don’t wear hoodies at night. Always record. Don’t get dreadlocks. Talk right. Don’t let Massa see you cry. We lose our adolescence as soon as we come to realize it. There were murders like Ahmaud Arbery before, that much I knew, but none so… close. The details of his death sang in my head to the same tune as Emmett Till's, Thomas Moss’s, and more I cannot bear to recollect.
I was watching a docu-series about the early 2000s and the US occupation of the Middle East. Footage of airstrikes played on the TV when my father walked in and stood behind me. “I was there,” he said. We have never discussed his time in the Navy; he never talked about it, and I took it as a hint never to ask.
Through my careful probing, he revealed that his part was in Operation Shock and Awe, phase one of the US invasion of Iraq. A sweeping array of destruction meant to parade strength and dominance. Behind those bombs somewhere was my father, and behind my father somewhere was America. I asked him if he believed in the cause. If he believed in what he was fighting for. He laughed. “I hate this country,” was all he said.
A stoic man. He never lets you see his pain. But you would hear it. In the stories of his childhood, and the choices of his adulthood. At 19, my father enlisted in the Navy three days after graduating high school. From the inner city of Fort Lauderdale, he saw a future that ended in misery and took a chance. There are two places that give you a bed, clothes, and food for free: prison or the military. My father was not much of a criminal, so he took the other form of imprisonment. He traveled to Mexico, Hong Kong, Australia, Singapore, France, Greece, Guam, Bahrain, and Dubai. For 12 years, he defended a country that would no sooner care if he lived or died.
I have always found the Black veteran to be ironic. A fighter for a system established on their suffering. A champion of their injustice. A guardian of the existing order.
“I can't be a pessimist because I am alive. To be a pessimist means that you have agreed that human life is an academic matter. So, I am forced to be an optimist. I am forced to believe that we can survive, whatever we must survive.”- James Baldwin.
I was 20 when this country showed me its truth. I remember waking and seeing the texts flood in as the results of the election cemented in everyone’s minds. I remember the cold gust of wind piercing my face as I went to my classes in complete silence. Professors, noticing the tension, chose to pick our brains for the day. Classmates expressed their disappointment and fear while I remained silent. There was nothing I wanted to say. Having something to say meant I accepted it.
What do you say when a country has told you to shut up, sit down, and behave? What is there to say to a country that has chosen its comfort over your safety? We train our children that silence gives us incentive. We reward each other for lack of action. That’s what my father knew, at least. America has made a gentleman’s agreement with Black folks. But they never kept their end of the bargain.
I called my father that day. I did not know what to do with all of my misery. He asked me why I was surprised and why I expected anything different. He thought he had taught—trained— me better than to be so naive. I sat stunned, not knowing how to respond.