And Her Blood is On America’s Hands...

[Bryan Woolston/Reuters]

Wednesday, September 23, 2020.

Time: Unknown.

Location: Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 

This week had already been very stressful for me. I was in the middle of figuring out money problems with Student Financial Services, I needed to refill my prescriptions for my acne, and I had to calculate the finances for an upcoming trip to D.C. I was in my Zoom class, camera on, sound off—we were discussing Danish and African relationships and how they affected the slave trade on the Gold Coast hundreds of years ago. It was an interesting topic to say the least. I had contributed to the class conversation at the very start of the class due to the fact that I had done the reading, which had been a long 30 pages to digest the night before. 

Still, I was only giving around 50% of my attention to the conversation at hand; I was sitting on my bed, cell phone in hand and Twitter being scrolled through. I refreshed my feed, and in less than a minute, I was angry, distraught, and everything else in between. Needless to say, I felt myself holding back bitter tears. Not because I was shocked, but quite the opposite—everything that I already believed about this country had once again been affirmed, much to my dismay.

No police officers were going to be charged with murder in the case of Breonna Taylor. One would be indicted, but only for the bullets that missed her, not for the ones that went into her body. 

I said nothing. My jaw only became clenched and my mood turned sour. Fortunately, the class was coming to an end, so I closed Zoom, and opened Spotify. There was only one particular song I wanted to listen to, and that was “Sandra’s Smile,” by Blood Orange. I felt that it was the perfect song to describe not only my emotions, but the emotions felt by most Black people in America at the moment. It was a song about anger, and resentment, and not wanting to forgive. AT ALL. 

The song was dedicated to Sandra Bland, a Black woman who had died in police custody back in 2015. Her death had been labeled a suicide despite the fact that her family stated that taking her life was something that she’d never do. I remember those events so vividly, specifically because they were the beginning of my understanding of state sanctioned violence against Black women. Of course, I was aware of the many issues surrounding police violence and racism, but the death of Sandra Bland had hit a vein. Never in my life had I heard about something so insidious, so vile, yet so personal. In my world, women like Sandra Bland felt familiar. I had grown up around women who walked, talked, and acted just like her, who understood that their beliefs and ideas might cost them their lives. 

The lyrics Blood Orange sang in “Sandra’s Smile” were simple, yet very poetic for the times we live in. Although they were written specifically for Sandra, they were really written for everyone who was both Black, and a woman. Because after all, when she passed away, a small part of everyone else did too:

“Who taught you to breathe, then took away your speech

Made you feel so loved, then shook your hand with gloves?

You watched her pass away the words she said weren't faint

Closed our eyes for a while, but I still see Sandra's smile”

Blood Orange - Sandra's Smile (Official Video) 

I hoped and prayed that something like what happened to Sandra Bland would never again happen, that both white supremacy and patriarchy wouldn’t wake up one early morning and decide to claim another victim. Unfortunately, my prayers had fallen on deaf ears. Five years later, both white supremacy and patriarchy teamed up and decided to claim the life of a Black EMT worker during the delivery of a no-knock warrant at an unruly hour in the morning. 

Her name was Breonna Taylor, she was 27, and she deserved much more. She deserved her LIFE.

Her blood, much like Sandra Bland’s, is on America’s hands. I couldn’t help but feel as though every Black woman in this country had been cheated—Breonna’s case seemed like the most cut and dry one in the world; she was in her home sleeping, doing absolutely nothing wrong. She could’ve been any one of us, and to let her killers get away with murder show how much America values Black women, which is not at all. 

They want our energy, our support, our votes, our style, our swagger, and our passion. But when it comes to our lives, they would rather have us not breathing. A Black life is far more valuable to the elites dead than alive—Breonna far was more marketable as a martyr than anything else. She became a song, a t-shirt, a hashtag, and a meme. An ordinary person who once lived and walked amongst us became this almost fictitious figure, as if they never really existed in the first place. They have chosen to turn our trauma into a folk tale, all for their own consumption. All for profit and engagement. 

As a Black woman born and raised on American soil, I don’t think that this is my country. I don’t see the appeal at all, especially not for me. I don’t think that I’ll ever be able to trust the system of the red, white, and blue. I’m not sure if I see things getting better. Still, when I talk to other people and see that they do have hope, I try not to take it away from them. Sometimes I think that it’s all we have, and all we can ever imagine. 

Am I wrong for that? Perhaps.