Inflection Point

By Shaughn Richardson

I’m tired.

Mentally exhausted.

COVID-19 has upended every facet of modern life for billions of people around the world. In the United States it has laid bare for all to see the systemic failures and faults within many of our largest institutions. It has stripped away many of our distractions and forced us to look at our society more deeply than many of us could have fathomed. Some among us have been appalled by what this deeper examination of our world has revealed. Economic, social, and racial inequalities that many have never experienced or noticed have many feeling uneasy. Left a great deal of the country uncomfortable as they grapple with these realities for the first time.

For me, these past few months have stripped me of patience for the willful ignorance of others. For me, like many others, economic and racial inequalities have been a part of our lives forever. Things we’ve been working against our entire lives. I’m 38 years old and feel like I’ve been fighting this fight most of my life. After the video of George Floyd’s death came out, I couldn’t watch it. I didn’t know what to say or do. I was angry. Enraged. Sad. I can’t watch people get murdered in cold blood anymore. People who look like me. I thought it insane that I’ve accepted that it’s reality. That people just don’t care. That some people just don’t believe in the deep seated racism that exists in this country. That people are more willing to protest over stay at home orders than the actually systemic killing of people of color all across this nation.

I remember watching the LA Riots as a child. Seeing the video of Rodney King being beaten as a 9-year-old Black boy living in Richmond, California did not surprise me. I was not shocked or confused. Even then I knew exactly what happened. Even then I wasn’t surprised when people focused more on the destruction rather than the cause. I remember Amadou Diallo as a teenager. Realizing that he could be me. Accepting that fact was easier than it should have been. Most don’t even know his name. Some don’t accept that racism is why he’s dead. As an adult I’ve watched as violence against people of color, and racism in general, has become a punchline. So commonplace as to become cliche. A Chappelle Show sketch here, a YouTube video there. We march and share hashtags but nothing changes. It’s just something people of color joke about to deal with the pain and rage. Something white people joke about to avoid uncomfortable conversations. No one wants to get out of their comfort zone.

I’ve seen the video of Tamir Rice killed. I also saw the gofundme for his killer raise hundreds of thousands of dollars. Sandra Bland. Freddie Grey. Philando Castille. More names than I can count. It seems like we’re always trying to show racism is real after these things happen. That they’re not some random coincidence. How many times can we say, see, look! How many times can we march? Protest non-violently? Watch peaceful people get crushed by police in military gear? How many times can we be tear gassed? Be ignored by a large portion of our fellow citizens? How many times can we fight for our experiences to be viewed as valid? That what is happening to us is real. Without being questioned? Without being dismissed as liberal propaganda? Ignored like the very racism that causes these pains?

I can remember so many instances of racism in my life. Seeing white people I thought were friends say ni**er. Hearing racist jokes about Hispanics and Asians from my white friends as if I would find them funny. Seeing KKK and white power in the bathrooms in middle school and high school. Getting white power and swatikas drawn on my car in high school as a “joke.” Thirteen years old, opening my front door at 9 am on a Saturday morning to two cops with reports of a Black man with a gun on our roof. I told them my Dad was in our backyard building a playset for my little brother and sister. Being pulled over so many times but never getting a ticket for a moving violation. Always being asked whose car I’m driving. The time as an adult when one of my sibling’s classmates wrote ni**ers in my parents driveway in ketchup. As a joke. He didn’t understand the big deal. The white man standing outside of my school the day after Trump was elected yelling at the kids to go back to Mexico. I see the microaggressions. The racist Facebook posts. The dog whistles.

I’ve written poems, blogs, and songs about my experiences. Shared them with people. Still some do not hear or believe. I’ve shared articles, research, and first hand accounts. And still people dismiss, question, gaslight. People I’ve known 20 years yet still can’t bring themselves to empathize with my point of view. Still can’t bring themselves to feel my anger. Understand my pain. My rage.

Alas, ever the fool, I still harbor hope. Yes people are comfortable. Too privileged. I am as well to a degree. I’m highly educated and have a good job. I’m relatively secure and comfortable, even during this pandemic. Yet I still feel angry, sad, and enraged. As I imagine how I would feel if I were less fortunate, or secure, or comfortable, I understand the violence. I understand the desire to lash out. People are exhausted. People are drained. They’re exasperated. We’ve been talking for soooo long. Racism is not a problem we as people of color can solve. Yet the burden to even prove it exists has been carried by us forever. These systems and structures that perpetuate it cannot be torn down by people of color alone. Nothing will change until we’re heard. Felt. Listened to and seen. And for those things to happen, people must be willing to get uncomfortable. They must be willing to risk their comfort, their peace of mind. They must be willing to learn.

This pandemic has snatched the comfort from many. In its absence people have lashed out in frustration. But some have stepped up. Some have started to examine our society with a more critical eye than ever before. And they’ve started to see, hear and feel the world without the rose colored glasses of our past false normalcy. They saw George Floyd begging for help and have heeded his call. They’re seeing it’s time for action. They see it’s time to learn how to initiate and create meaningful change. Maybe you feel it too. Many are searching how to make a difference.

And I would ask of them, of you, and myself.

To plot, plan, strategize, organize, and mobilize. And never give up.

This will not be easy. Or quick. Or comfortable. But it must be done. Contribute what you can. No matter how big or small, we all have to play.

As a final motivation I’ll share the words of the late, great John Lewis.

“Do not get lost in a sea of despair, do not become bitter or hostile. Be hopeful, be optimistic. Never, ever be afraid to make some noise and get in good trouble, necessary trouble. We will find a way to make a way out of no way.”

Shaughn Richardson is an educator, poet, and musician. He currently teaches social studies at Washoe Inspire Academy, serves as a Commissioner on the Reno Arts and Culture Commission, as a Board Member of the Holland Project, and is part of the Spoken Views Poetry Collective. He keeps busy with his band 7Out, and his weekly Hip Hop radio show and Podcast Up in The Mix. He lives in Reno with his girlfriend and their dog Frankie.

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Kathleen KuoAugust 17, 2020A2 Comments