I was thinking about that driver’s words again last summer as news poured in about the killings of George Floyd, Ahmaud Arbery and Breonna Taylor. I was thinking about the way in which white people, in order to justify their own grotesque violence, so often engage in a kind of fiction, an utterly insidious denialism that creates the reality it claims to protest. By which I mean an unwillingness to see the violence that is actually happening before you because of a presumption of violence that might happen, is itself a kind of violence. What exactly can a man with a knee on his neck do, what can a sleeping woman do to deserve their own murder?
Well, on the one hand, be a convicted career criminal who held a gun to a pregnant woman's belly, and on the other, be the ex-girlfriend of a drug dealer and sleeping with a man who shoots at the police when they enter with a warrant.
You've never heard that expression 'Lie down with dogs, wake up with 9mm bullet holes', Yaa?
So many of the writers of colour that I know have had white people treat their work as though it were a kind of medicine. Something they have to swallow in order to improve their condition, but they don’t really want it, they don’t really enjoy it, and if they’re being totally honest, they don’t actually even take the medicine half the time.
You've convinced me your brand of snake oil isn't worth taking, that's for sure. I won't be buying your opus. Or reading it for free, either.