Being Black in the Inner City… What is the aftermath of explosive protests and injustice?

Tattered flags waving in the night breeze. Echoes reverberate through the street. Uproars. Protests. Movements. And, inevitably, even riots. The city has spoken. It’s fighting back, imploding. Big businesses, protected. Small businesses, looted. Store fronts, set ablaze. Bricks and cars alike, burning. Chaos all around. Traffic halts. Lights flash. Tension swells and the city stands still. Then the cycle repeats itself.

Art. Murals. Poems, speeches and songs, all dedicated to one thing. Recovery. The red, the black, the green. The knotted locks of rebellion. The clinched fist of power. All signs. All a symbolic manifestation of a deep rooted and shared trauma. All meant to connect and bring us together. It always does. The love, the hugs, the laughs, the joy. The dancing, the feasting, the games, the sports, the fun. The traveling, relaxing, the drinks, enjoying the peace. Momentarily.

Then the flood. A wave of violence and death to rock the very foundation of that peace to the core. Retreating within ourselves to deal with this newfound pain, we find ourselves host to countless other demons. Regret. Embarrassment. Envy. Pride. The pain only hurts more. Finally comes the rage. Incensed by the outcomes. Upset by the downpour. Enraged by the outrage. Victims to our own emotions.

This rage fuels bias, powers statistics and nurses stereotypes. It’s why we’re feared or considered a threat. It’s the excuse that justifies taking our lives. This rage is the culmination of 400 years of slavery and hundreds more of segregation, followed by an endless battle for civil rights and social justice. Yet change has been marginal at best. Instead of understanding, we’re met with denial. We’re always provoked, never pacified. Given crumbs instead of compassion. The fabricated and decaying veil of justice and equality has all but disappeared. The restless grow weary.

The sun once again sets upon the city. A dark and eerie silence falls over the streets. It’s palpable. The calm before the next storm. To be clear, there will be another storm. There will be more pain. There is going to be more innocent blood spilled. The city will burn again. Through those ashes, through that smoke, we will rise. Just like a phoenix. This newest incarnation of us, of the city, will be stronger and more resilient than ever. Our rage is our weapon, our armor. It breeds character and perseverance. It is not a defect or handicap. Embrace your rage if you ever want to spark any form of change.