To Eric Garner, Tamir Rice, and every Black boy who had their second chances stolen

To Eric Garner, Tamir Rice, and every Black boy who had their second chances stolen,

It’s not often we see each other, is it?

You exist in many setting, many homes. Whether it’s a convenience store, a street corner, a playground, you find ways to feel secure in this space you thought you owned. This is a space that your family and your culture helped make for you, so that you can feel safe. But much like your brothers, you couldn’t outlast this world’s desire to clip you before you sprout. Like chalk your bodies decorate street corners. It feels like trauma, and it’s always felt too close to home.

But I have good news! This weekend you have become a piece of art. Carrie Mae Weems, and artist, a mogul, has contorted these recordings of your death to repeat, to replay themselves into art. Ms. Weems makes art that I hold dear to my heart, but I have questions. Who did she consider when she made this piece?

Philandro Castille, did she think of your girlfriend before she made this piece? The way her heart might sink as she watches her boyfriend die in 1080p, like a broken record.
Eric Garner, did she think of your son weeping on public television, crying for his family to be united?
Did she think of Black bodies, Black eyes, Black hearts?
Did she think about me?

Weren’t you art before she borrowed your bodies?

I don’t know how you guys feel about this art. You know the history of Black pain porn is nothing new in a system hosted by white supremacy. You know you look a lot like the lynched Black boy on the 1930’s postcard, surrounded by a picnic and white smiles. There was no grace in democracy then, and it has not come back to save you.

But I can’t write this letter to you without addressing the audience at Citizen University. In a space of primarily college students, sponsors, and people who can afford to attend, the amount of both racial and wealth based privilege is apparent. Art pieces like these are frequently used to convince some alternative party of our collective humanity. If we bleed ourselves out in the public eye maybe they’ll recognize us. But I don’t think I can offer up much more blood, before we all go numb. This art that is meant to be moving often traumatizes Black people while numbing whiteness, in an attempt to evoke emotion. Maybe Ms. Weems already knew what type of people would be in the room?

We are all navigating this space between educating and reliving these growing pains we already know. I just hope we don’t lose your individuality and importance in the process. You all are missed everyday by your families and communities. But to see you in this graphic format always feels like knives. Slicing with the expertise and purpose they were crafted with. Not unlike the supremacy that took you.

It’s too often we see each other, isn’t it?