Calling In Black: Black Life Matters
One of the realest conversations I’ve had is with Dr. Roberta Hunte, critical race theory scholar, who told me that for a lot of people, Black Lives do not matter, Black death does. What she meant by that was it’s easy to put a sign in the window, walk a few miles in protest or make a donation after an unarmed Black person is killed by the police, but valuing the life of living Black people is an entirely different story.
The last time that I went to work was May 27, 2020. I hadn’t intended on being off for a total of 11 days, but my Memorial Day weekend was spent grieving the loss of a friend (#LongLiveTone) and taking off the superwoman cape that I’d been wearing for far too long. According to Dr. Amani Allen at Berkeley Public Health, The superwoman schema is “more than just a cultural trope: Many black women in America report feeling pressured to act like superwomen, projecting themselves as strong, self-sacrificing, and free of emotion to cope with the stress of race- and gender-based discrimination in their daily lives.”
I’ve been called “superwoman” before my womanly parts even fully developed and the cape has gripped my throat even more tighter due to the pandemic, which you guessed it - is hitting the Black community the hardest. And if the pandemic, burn out and losing a loved one weren't enough, before the middle of last week I’d watched an unarmed Black man be murdered by a police officer kneeling on his neck. While still dealing with the fact that a Black man was murdered while jogging and a Black woman, was unjustly murdered in her sleep. These aren’t just isolated situations. Police brutality is a symptom of racism, a virus I’d argue is more deadly than COVID-19.
But let’s be clear. Racism isn’t just limited to police brutality, Amy Cooper’s and BBQ Becky’s. Racism is such a deadly virus that infects Black bodies when we hear that we’re “articulate” from upper management; are called angry when being clear and direct; are paid less for doing more and all the other ways that Black people are reminded by daily microaggressions that our life does not matter unless we become a hashtag. I’ve had a wave of emotions watching colleagues and classmates - past and present, share their solidarity with the “Black Lives Matter” movement when I have stories for days about the many times I’ve been treated as if my life, my feelings, my needs, do not matter. This rising wave of solidarity is reactionary to Black death, but many Black Americans like myself want our lives to matter at all times.
“Dear White people. We get it. You’re mad. However, your new level of indignation is no equal to our anger. Black people have been this mad for 400 years. You have been this mad for a month. Posting 99.9% more times on Instagram about how you’re handling your sudden wokeness to Black anger does not overcompensate for a lifetime of relative inaction.”
How can my life matter when white male colleagues earn more, by doing less, yet funding for my role always seems to go missing? How can my life matter when I’m fired for reporting harassment on the job, while a white colleague is allowed to take off work for the death of a dog? How can my life matter when despite having two degrees and years of successful experience - my ideas are not listened to, I’m under-resourced, and treated more like an assistant instead of the professional title that I have? This isn’t something I’ve experienced once in my career or just at one particular company. It’s become something that I’ve sadly come to expect no matter the position, the organization, or who is in leadership. Because my overall experience of working while Black means being exposed to the racism virus time and time and again. Because while a “company” may not stand for racism, its employees, pay inequities, cultural environment and workload may say otherwise.
I was prepared to return to work last Monday, contradicting what I mentioned earlier about not being a superwoman because bills need to be paid, and this habit has been ingrained in me for years. But on May 31, after spending the weekend watching anarchists terrorize Oakland, watching my friends physically protect their businesses with their bodies during these riots, exposing themselves to violence and the coronavirus - I felt my mental health flip then flip and flip again and made the decision to use the sick and vacation time that I’ve earned to “call in Black.” Calling in Black is a colloquialism I picked up somewhere, in regards to needing time off to process the fears, feelings and pains of seeing police brutality all over the news and social media - or things that you’ve experienced in your own life.
In an article for Slate, A.T. McWilliams references this pain that I, and many other Black Americans are feeling, as a 400 year old symptom of PTSD. Mcwilliams states that “while secondary racial trauma is still a nascent research topic, firsthand experiences with racism have long been proven to cause higher rates of PTSD for people of color as compared with white people.” So instead of being strong this past week, I’ve been allowing myself space to get in touch with how I’m really feeling mentally, physically, and emotionally, without sucking it up for the sake of a Zoom meeting. Because this racist virus has struck me again and it’s not ok. I’m not ok. Because I’m sick. And I’m tired. And I’m sick and tired of being tired. And until there’s a cure to this virus, I don’t know exactly when I’ll get better.
