Last night, I dreamed of police brutality.
It is a thing of nightmares, really. For the better part of 15 years I have been a restless sleeper. A good night amounts to five or six hours of sleep, which might explain a lot now that you know this. I used to awaken just to ensure my babies were snug. I’d tiptoe into my sons’ rooms to watch their eyelids flutter and wonder what colored their dreams. I would ever so gently put my hand on the small of their back, feeling it move up and down as they would breathe deep, satisfying breaths. These stolen moments were such a calm departure from the loud mayhem of raising young boys. I would return to bed filled with an indescribable peace that only a mother knows when her children are safe. And I was heavy with envy. Sleep, still distant.
Now, I awaken with sorrow for the world around me, the burden heavy and the toll deep. The world is afire, and I cannot rest.
Monuments fell, but white supremacy still rises. The days are dark, and not only is there no light at the end of the tunnel, there seems to be no end to the tunnel. We are living in another world that some like to call “the new normal.” There’s nothing new about what we face today, and lord help us if this speaks to any shred of normalcy. Destruction. Violence. Hate. Fear. These bogeymen are just new to some, those who have never felt this biting heat on their own skin before.
Here we are in the midst of a reckoning. A long overdue, much awaited reckoning. The unheard are becoming restless. We need to build bigger platforms, turn up the mics, shush the silencers, and organize. If I am to put up a good fight, I reckon I should try to get some sleep.