In Salau, I saw a young Black woman, the same age as myself, who called for justice despite the harm she faced. After her death, my timeline erupted in memorials, and conversations on how to better protect Black women — how she died at the hands of a Black man who should have protected her.
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.