I remember sitting in my grandmother’s home in Jamaica, in the sweltering heat, confused as to why George Zimmerman was acquitted after killing Trayvon Martin.
I was twelve.
Since then, countless people have died at the hands of police — their killings preserved on dashcam or bystander video, while many others were never filmed.
The grotesque, inhumane, evil killing of George Floyd has burst the dam of Black Patience again. Black people are appalled. Black people are pissed off. Black people are fed up. Black people are heartbroken. But most of all, Black people are tired.
The pillaging of Africa’s resources by some of our nation’s most revered companies serves as a brutal reminder that even with the passage of the Civil Rights Act in 1964, American corporations do not practice this formal equality beyond its borders. With the onset of globalization, they have merely transferred their system of exploitation overseas.
It is easy to mindlessly repeat the aesthetics and vocabulary of social justice; putting your money where your mouth is, on the other hand, proves far less convenient.
Everyone who has looked back on different points in their lives will realize that these moments are strewn about their memory. They may not be massively significant or complex, but the characteristics of these moments in time blend together to create a painfully nostalgic memory.
I branded myself on being the token fat girl. Yeah, I would still get nasty looks no matter what I ate — but fuck it, I was having fun. I had friends, and, in my opinion (which I later questioned) “stylish” clothing. Sure, I wasn’t skinny, but that didn’t matter. Grandma didn’t treat me any different, and that’s all that mattered.
After putting our thumbs up our asses for the past week, the administration has come to the following conclusion:
Fuck you.
The question here is whether or not the Confucius Institutes actively pollute the free exchange of ideas at major American universities.