THIS MORNING, I MISTAKE THE SOUND OF THUNDER FOR BOMBS
|
for Brittny
which tells you something about the state of this country. This morning, I open Instagram and see Céline lying through its teeth. I’d love to write about skipping stones at the local lake, or my best friend’s collection of wool coats, but the police pulled guns on her husband standing in his own yard. I want to love my country. I’d love to write about the scent of honeysuckle, but this city has gone up in flames. I learned only yesterday that Charleston was the center of the slave trade. A few miles from the port, another white couple exchanges vows at a plantation. I wish I could love my country. Right now, I live a mile from where George Floyd grew up, hear that Cartier and Dior have boarded up their windows uptown. That’s more than just a metaphor. I was twelve when Oscar Grant was killed at the same BART station where my mother debarks. She has blonde hair, blue eyes, has never had to fear for her life. At seventeen, in math class, someone said I have major jungle fever, and I watched as my friend stiffened, brown eyes unblinking. I waited for her to say something so I wouldn’t have to. I still think about that. In college, every English professor but one was white, and I’m from California, which thinks itself superior. In college, I read an Audre Lorde poem and my heart beat fast as rubber bullets leaving the barrel, which aren’t really rubber at all, I’ve learned, and these are what the police keep firing at the people I love. I want so badly to love my country. Last July, I saw a man I knew from college on Instagram: shirtless, in a MAGA hat, the photo captioned, America is fiyah! If that’s true, then let’s let it burn. |