He came to me visibly upset. It hit him in the face like a wet dishcloth. The Rittenhouse verdict was in, and once again, he saw the double-dealing and ugliness of the justice system.
He shook with rage and disappointment. Hope sapped from his soul as he wiped angry and bitter tears from tired eyes. The melanin soaked into his skin, a burden laced with generational trauma. If he were Rittenhouse and carried a loaded rifle to a demonstration and did what the young jewel and the love of white America did, he would’ve died in those Kenosha streets labeled a criminal and a thug. His body riddled with bullets like Jacob Blake.
The white officer who crippled Blake got away to patrol the streets once more. “Where’s the justice for that black man?” He said.
“Marching and protests don’t solve shit,” he said. It's time for a revolution. It’s only a matter of time before more blood is in the streets.
I looked at my 23-year-old son and cried in my spirit for the America he lives in. The America, his ancestors, seasoned with their blood in the south's vicious and hot cotton fields.
My son stood there like Nat Turner, ready to burn the justice system to the ground. I thought Justice isn’t blind; she peeps from behind her blindfold, destroys the innocent, and frees the guilty. Her bias hides but manifests itself in the courthouses of this diseased politic we call fair and free.
I understood his disappointment and anger. I’ve lived at least 30 years with mine. I was ignorant in my early youth. I was indoctrinated with false narratives about Columbus and the first Thanksgiving. The brutality and inhumanity of the great sin of American chattel slavery was glossed over and given maybe a short chapter.
Once I graduated from my Eurocentric public school system and went to Xavier University of New Orleans, an HBCU (Historically Black College or University), I learned the true nature of my station. The anger and dissatisfaction began then, and as I read more information, my disgust grew.