Grief is a funny thing. Dichotomy in a sentence. I remember the first time I felt true grief, I was 10 and my uncle had passed. I learned about the five stages of grief. I learned that anger was one. I learned that it was ongoing. I learned that it could change you. I’ve felt grief many times in my life. I felt it again two weeks ago when I awoke to see the video of George Floyd, murdered by a white man. Before I went to bed the night before I saw little parts of the story, but I shut it down. I shut out that another black man had been murdered by police. I tried to shut out the grief, but when I awoke Tuesday morning to confirm it, it hit me like a freight train.
I knew what I was about to face as a white-facing biracial person. I knew I was going to have to relive the pain and process of coming out to everyone who didn’t know me to convince them I had a right to grieve this death. That I had a voice and a platform. I had just had a conversation a week before about how sometimes being white-facing is so tricky because you have survivors guilt. I’ll never live the experience of my more melanated siblings, but I live with the trauma of it everyday. I found that I regretted for a long time that I had not been an activist, loudly and unapologetically. So, as I put on my war paint struggling through three different shades of ‘neutral’ makeup to come up with a color that matched my skin, I steeled myself. I took my moment and cried and decided that this time I was going to bring it to my public platforms. This time, I would be the activist. I prepared myself to lose my momentum on socials platforms, I prepared to lose followers and students. I fully expected a backlash.
I started on my personal page, sharing every ounce of information I could find. Researching the Minneapolis Police Department, confronting my friends who shared the video itself. I shared on Instagram that Black Lives Matter, a gateway into what was to come, to prepare my followers of my stance. It wasn’t so long ago that I had begun using the hashtag ‘biracial'.’ I wondered if people had figured it out yet. Tuesday night, I went live on my personal page, and mostly just cried. I grieved publicly. I begged for my white friends to become advocates. I begged for them to support me. I bore my soul that time. I discussed problematic responses, posting at least 4 times ‘Hey white people, here are inappropriate ways to respond….’ I wondered, how many people will I anger. I never wondered if people would follow because I expected they would not.
Wednesday is #coffeechat day on my public platforms. I almost didn’t go live or post on instagram. I was losing myself. I saw posts of white people that were oblivious, that were trying to do well, and something else…white people defending and having hard conversations. It was a glimmer. I forced myself to post on instagram and in the middle my eyes welled up as I said ‘HE MURDERED HIM’ and again as I spoke about being light skinned and less ‘scary.’ Even though I didn’t know it then, that was my first taste of public activism. I sang ‘Empty Chairs at Empty Tables.’ A song that so clearly portrays survivor’s guilt, a song that questions why, a song that expresses grief.
Thursday, I was spent. I couldn’t be present any longer, I tagged friends and watched as the protests ignited into uprisings and then into riots. I had lived this before, I had learned about this before. And my heart was in agony. Again, I wondered, ‘Am I black enough to be speaking about this?’ My husband said he was scared. My father called and didn’t want to discuss the murder because it was just another in a long list. Thursday, I finally slept and recovered from the initial shock of what had happened and what I had done. I wondered if I’d destroyed my career as I watched the livestreams of my city being demolished.
Friday, I had to decide if I was going to come out against or for the looting. A conversation I continue to have with myself. I looked at how I was grieving and decided I could not tell another person how to grieve. I began to see white people still fighting the good fight. I had recuperated so I offered to be a resource, to read the things white people wanted to post, but weren’t sure about. I was a sounding board and an amplifier. Somewhere in there though, I felt pride. I felt like I had always been called to do this.
Saturday passed as devastating as the previous days with no arrests and a curfew in place. We watched the news endlessly as cities burned and cried out his name and the name of countless others. I went live on my personal facebook. I was finding my voice.
Sunday came and I needed to sing. I needed to sing those songs I learned from the black culture. I needed to say that we’d overcome. That I would overcome. Sunday…a semi drove into a crowd of protestors and I felt the familiar tinge of grief and anger. I yelled and screamed and cried, but I posted. I needed my voice to be in the conversation.
The 7 day anniversary of Big Floyd’s murder came and went, I was beginning to realize that I’d uncovered a whole new side of myself. I was beginning to realize that THIS combination of things was what I’d always needed to add. I spoke on a live feed about the world still watching and waiting for us. The conversation fell into the music world with #blackouttuesday and we saw the true colors of many organizations. People were reaching out to me left and right, by this time over 60 people. Slowly, the messages change from ‘how can I help?’ to ‘can we collaborate?’ It was everything I’d been wanting for years, a chance to record the repertoire that fit MY voice or have a piece written for me. I was hit with an overwhelming sense of happiness. The conversations continued, I opened up to my studio about the possible lack of communication because of the mental toll of this event. I began to realize that this was the voice I’d been looking for all along.
By Wednesday of the week following the murder more stories of police brutality came out and the public hadn’t stopped talking about it. The winds of change were at my back. I was finally empowered. I was finally the voice. I was finally proud for the change I had made in my corner. Sharing my story had never been more freeing or gratifying. I was constantly reminded of Rev Martin Luther King Jr.’s quote ‘only when it is dark enough can we see the stars.’
This time was impossibly dark, it still is. The work isn’t done, but I’m seeing the pinpricks of the stars. I’m seeing the very source of change. Change that the history books will site. Change that my generation will teach their children. Change that has come swiftly and inexhaustibly. Change with a welcoming, listening ear. Change that allows for micro-conversations. Change.
At the end of it all, I’ve come out stronger, with less guilt, and more confidence than I ever had before. I see clearly the path in front of me and I will continue to be active. I will no longer wait for the white person to ask ‘Why does your voice sound like that?’ I will instead lead with, I am biracial. I will no longer compartmentalize my growth.