His story will remember this year for everything it wasn’t.
The question the confused will ask years from now is: where were you during the performative gestures that inundated 2020?
The appropriate question is: where were you before? Where were you before an anti-black media told you it was okay to stand up and speak out about four hundred years of terror? Where were you before this anti-black space created a pseudo platform for black pain? Would George Floyd had mattered to you if the white media has not socially dictated his relevance?
The media decided that George Floyd was the means to their end, a truth conveyed as a straw that broke the camel’s back. However, as long as we, the black collectives constitute the camels, we are prone to the detriment of drought that an anti-black culture gifts us
History will not remember those actually organizing and advocating for change and murder under mysterious circumstances that echoed what happened in Ferguson in 2015. Rather, history will laud Joe Biden as a hero.
Many of those at the so-called protests were at the polls voting for forty-year political racist Joe Biden— a man who authored a bill that would have buried Floyd and many of his supporters in prison or white nationalist charges had the forces of white supremacy opted for a different approach to control the masses.
History will archive black uprising as a national effort where blacks and whites joined forces to elect those dedicated to “saving the soul of this nation.” History will ignore that despite its pseudo portrait of diversity, a serial, political racist remains on top.
Yet, the world will remember November 8th as the day when Joe Biden surpassed the 270 votes needed to claim the electoral college victory. The honking horns, the zealot who brought out their trumpet to commemorate the occasion, archive enthusiasm of a country who stayed a dragon. This dragon, according to an anti-black media, is Trumo, who over the last four years, the white media pegged as the sole racist on stolen land. This dragon is, of course, white nationalism, a force that barked a covert laugh at the cognitive genocide that permeates the globe, symbolizing a prodigious and unarchived victory. A force that proceeds in a blazing glory searing those complacent in the myth of its extinguished flames.
His story won’t remember Dr. Susan Moore, a black doctor who would ultimately die from Co-Vid complications after failing to be taken seriously by a white male doctor. A white doctor who undoubtedly comprised the chorus of those encouraging the Co-vid vaccine for those of African-descent. This year will be remembered as one of scientific inclusion, not a year that highlights how callous disregard continues to constitute a pattern in how the African-descended are treated.
What I’d say I learned most this year was that there remains a dearth of imagination. The violent use of the world revolution obscured what it once meant. This obscurity begged those who employed the term to toss it around without its inaugural intention, and, most significantly, to forget that imagination remains necessary to revolt. One must color beyond the lines drawn to cross out black humanity, even if these lines are twisted to spell black lives matter on an American street.
This year has revealed the extent of systemic bamboozlement and delineated that the black optic must lose its significance to make room for cognitive enhancement. 2020 revealed that cognitive genocide permeates the cerebral landscape of the majority and the minority. I say this not to be pessimistic, but to highlight how what anti-black wold has limited to a single being, has continued to live rent-free in the American psyche. A burden we collectively pay with cyclical disenfranchisement disguised as linearity.
Nevertheless, I have never been more sure of my purpose. I have never been filled with more conviction to contribute to the ontology of my people through epistemology.
I hope that 2020 has not defeated or defined you. Instead, I hope that this year has refined your purpose. I hope what an anti-black world has deemed the worst year yet has granted you a form of reparations intellectually or spiritually. Most of all, I hope that this year has made it clear where you’d like to be. While this white nationalist space restricts black power to December 21st, mploys black power to ensure white victory, and admonishes against black intellect with its public castigation, I hope that you have regarded the occurrences this year as didactic that nothing will change unless we change it.
The task is before us. What will be your role?
Cheers to 2021, and the Afro-future before us.
3 Comments Add yours
2021 will be worse for us than 2020 and that is saying a lot. I have no idea how any of us who are American descendants of slavery could have cheered for a Biden/Harris ‘win’ because it was anything but for us. I have noticed that Black bloggers who used to show up on my reader, are no longer showing up. I believe that either they have just given up, their situation with regards to employment is not good or they are sick, but something is wrong. My reader used to be inundated with blogs by Black bloggers. In fact, hardly anyone is blogging anymore. All I do know is that things are not going to get better if we simply go into hiding. Our ancestors fought as hard as they could against an evil so depraved, it should have long since been destroyed but only gains in power and what we are up against is so vicious, depraved and deadly, I do believe that many have just given up.
However, I do thank you for this and for your other post. We need more like you; those who refuse to throw in the towel.
This year has really suceededed in mentally and finacially depleting alot of our people. It’s truly devastating. I’ve also heard about a massive sweep on media sites that censure any platforms that engender racial dialogue. Thank you for your kind words and raising your voice to the issues that plague us! Blog on!
You as well C.C. Why my blog is still up is an utter and complete mystery to me because, as you may know, I don’t mince my words.