Today, I’m Furious

When someone says they are gonna go visit their son, what do you imagine? Is it at his apartment for dinner? Or maybe at his football game? Some may even think in a classroom. But for too many parents. When they say they are gonna visit their son. They mean at their grave. 

“You don’t know what you’re gonna feel when you leave outta here. It may be peace one day or down right rage another.” 

This is what one of those moms said to me as she readied the flowers for her own son’s grave, right across from a young man… excuse me, too many young people… I knew well. 

“10 years ago my son was the only one here. Now look, this entire section is gun violence.” 

Rows and rows. Sons. Daughters. Mothers. Fathers. Siblings. They all had lives. Families. Names. 

16

18

15

18

10

29

32

The list goes on and this is just one cemetery. 

I need to be honest and say I don’t do cemetery’s well. I very rarely spend time there. I’ve only just recently been able to attend vigils or funerals without completely shutting down. Because I know I have to stand firm. Strong. I need to have a clear mind and a soft heart in order to obtain peace. Justice even. It’s very hard. And I know that not everyone is in a place to do this. But I have to. To educate folks on how absolutely senseless, unholy, and wrong this reality is. 

The other side of this cemetery has folks that lived to be 80 or older. That had grandchildren and made a home for themselves and left peacefully. 

This side of the cemetery is still bleeding out. Was left to die on the street they once stood on. Is being remembered by poorly written news articles and hashtags. This side of the cemetery doesn’t get to watch their own kids grown up. 

And yet. With folks knowing all of this. With people being broken by it. Another grave is being dug. Another friend let down by the hype of their crew. Another mother left to raise a baby without its father. Another sibling left with silence on the other end of the call they wish they could make. 

She was right. You don’t know how you will leave out here each time. Sure sometimes you’ll have peace. But today, I am furious. 

the last/first day

The letter board sign on my entertainment center still says last day of summer. 

Part of me hasn’t had the time or been home long enough to change it. But the other part of me knows that if I do… the reality of what happened on the first day of fall will be too real. 

The sadness. The anger. The guilt. The hate. The hollowness. And the downright grief from seeing our baby taken away from his family. 

————————————————————

Since then more loss, more shootings, more jail visits, more days where getting out of bed seems too much weight to bare. 

Innocent bystanders asking me how I’m doing today where the answer feels like punishing them, or someone making a joke that don’t feel very funny at all. 

I don’t expect people to feel how I feel. 

I don’t expect people to fight how I fight. 

However, I am bothered that they still have some innocence. They have a light that hasn’t dimmed. They have a sense of safety. They periodically grieve for unknown individuals in a mass media post. I visit graves without tombstones because no one planned for this. 

I’m angry and passionate. 

Moving forward feels unfair to the dead or imprisoned. But laying in this emptiness isn’t right for the ones still here fighting to live. 

This is where I’m at. Hurt by people who “avoid politics” but ensure my people never truly exist above struggle and suffering, and preach from the good news of Facebook...

This heart of mine is so tired from shattering over and over again. And yet, it still beats. And I suppose that is the ultimate gift, and challenge.