Say peace Troy. Tell Aiyana I said my mother’s doing alright and sit her ass down.
I got you. Asylums are forever.
Thank you gentlemen, we got him from here…
When They Reminisce Over You.
This writer shit, I swear.
So, they killed him.
Another Black person murdered by the State.
I didn’t want to do this piece.
I wasn’t going to do any piece about Mr. Davis.
My initial thoughts were more about him being free. I spent a time piece around people that had given back executions.
And in my thinking, I just felt like, “why would I trade in a death sentence for a life sentence?”
So, yeah, deep down, I wanted the misery to be over.
I understand prison. I studied in prison while studying prison.
I understand prison.
Of course, I’ve heard all of the arguments. I’m a writer that has no compunction allowing my readers and history know that I support suicide.
No one asked to get on this ride;
Everyone is responsible for their on seating on this ride;
I believe that every person should be allowed to end their ride when they deem fit.
But ain’t that always what it was?
But in case you’ve forgotten…
Welcome to Asylum:
What is death?
Like, what should Black people who aren’t able to connect them Selves to their Afrikan ancestry directly supposed to believe about death? Should we assume with every other ethnic groupings religious views, or our former slave masters and present Maafa museum guards’ understanding of science, their study and intuitive expertise in praxis of that which is?
When FUBU got dropped, so did another million possible FUBUs, LLs, and, hell, even Cross Colors. Look at what Khairi and D are doing with Stolen. Whatever the ego does, the purest essence (YOU), stays like a stain in the fabric of existence. A worn looking T-shirt, with that crisp Blackness of a well-managed favorite shirt. The pain of our blood will calcify the very elements that connect me to multiverses, but damn, I don’t want to be the blood spilled in order to stain this OBJECTIVE MATERIAL we call reality. Our minds and our tears aren’t doing it.
My prayers need prayers that need prayers.
I speak about limbo often. In the movie, The Matrix, and possibly as a well crafted artist steal afterwards in the movie, Inception, a train is used to style the idea of leaving limbo. In both, a death is necessary for those who need to escape limbo to do so. And maybe tonight we all need to get on that train. Last week my mother’s mother died and I still haven’t mustered the strength to tell her. And tonight, another family has died. And I don’t if I have the strength to let you know how much of you died as well. Death is complete. And it is necessary for the blood of our people to be spilled in order for us to wash from our slumber.
Can you imagine Troy pacing that cell? Can you imagine wondering if tonight will a passing blur distinct only because it is the most present memory of a day that has become blurred into one day that is really the accummulation of two decades worth of days? To wake up dying at triple pace in a cage whose keepers suffer you no more than their hatred at your label of ‘cop killer’? How must it feel to bleed daily while screaming innocence from your pores in a world where your guilt is based on the tax bracket your skin color can afford you? And how many more are facing this exact fate this month? Two weeks from now? Two hours from then?
They are still shooting Malcom X in the Audobon Ballroom. Can’t you hear the FOI and FBI feet dragging over him?
They are still stoning Steven Biko in Police Room 619. Can’t you hear the police investigating him?
They are still going to record Aiyana’s death in Detroit. Can’t you hear the flash bombs exploding?
See, their misery is over. Their post has been properly relieved by you and I. But what do we do with this misery until our time here is done? What do we give back to these humans that have yet to see the destruction that humans wrought upon one another? What do we tell the young Blacks of the United States when they face the penalty for being born of the original seed? What would you have wanted done by you if you were going to die tonight?
What if you weren’t the one organizing the rally, but the one that needed an organized rally? You ever thought about that? See, it is so fucking easy to say,”I am Troy Davis!” No muthaphukkka, you…what the fuck it you really were Troy Davis?
What if you woke up this morning with hope and dispair playing a game of chess in your emotional center?
What if you looked into the eyes of those you play a reoccurring game of chess with, and all you saw was the fear of the reality they must face as well?
What if you were innocent and nobody powerful enough to hear you, including your piss poor phukkkking god?
What if you actually were Troy Davis?
What if you actually had to consider death right now?
What if someone were about to legally kill you in front of the world and history?
What would you wish?
This is the piece I didn’t want to write. And don’t want to write any more. I hoped to your lazy and cowardly god that I wouldn’t have to, but per the usual from that fucking character…
I’m sorry…for whenever They Reminisce Over You…watch your feet though, homie, Aiyana and Oscar keep them damn game controllers out…