When the news anchor reported the police had killed Casey Goodson, Jr., I gagged and then bolted up the stairs to the safety of my closet.
What was I doing watching the damn news, anyway? It was bad for me. I had vowed to abstain and hadn’t watched for months. And then, like an addict, I slipped. What were the odds I’d get bad drugs the one time I slipped?
I moaned. I rocked myself for comfort that could not be found. Another one gone. Another one lost. Another future stolen.
No more. No more.
Casey Goodson, Jr. was transformed from flesh and blood into just another news story. After a year of protest, demonstrations, marches, petitions. A year of conversations about systemic racism, white body supremacy, white privilege. A year of hearing that consciousness was shifting.
I retched. In my imagination, I smashed windows.
I looked him up online. My god, he was a sweet-faced baby. A handsome twenty-three-year-old, until he was a headline on the kitchen floor. Found there by his grandmother and baby brother. There were demonstrations in Casey Goodson, Jr.’s hometown, but nothing here in Kansas City. Nothing on Facebook, where football games and plates of food got honored. In my imagination, I cussed out my friends. Why weren’t they as mad as I was?
In a crowd of protestors near the Ohio Statehouse, there were his mother and family attorney, calling for justice, urging peace. With the impenetrable government facade as backdrop, his mother’s loss spilled out in heaving sobs.
If I couldn’t bear this, how could she? How would she?
In bed, I said a metta prayer for her. For mothers of murdered sons. For mothers of absent sons. For mothers. Grandmothers. Baby brothers. Families bearing loss. For all beings in all realms. May they be free from suffering.
During the day, when she came to mind, I trembled. In my imagination, we were together in her house, staring at the spot on the kitchen floor. We sat knee to knee. I put my hand on hers.
All beings in all realms … are they real? Casey Goodson, Jr.’s mother is real. She’ll have to fry eggs in that kitchen.
I sent her a card.
The rigidity in my body eased, like armor removed. I spread my arms in release and welcome. I felt permeable.
Then the police killed Andre´ Maurice Hill.
Another one taken. There will always be another one taken.
I’m not supposed to bear grief. I’m supposed to bear witness.
To all who love my lost boys, I vow to be open. Let your grief pass through me on its endless journey.
What was I doing watching the damn news, anyway? It was bad for me. I had vowed to abstain and hadn’t watched for months. And then, like an addict, I slipped. What were the odds I’d get bad drugs the one time I slipped?
I moaned. I rocked myself for comfort that could not be found. Another one gone. Another one lost. Another future stolen.
No more. No more.
Casey Goodson, Jr. was transformed from flesh and blood into just another news story. After a year of protest, demonstrations, marches, petitions. A year of conversations about systemic racism, white body supremacy, white privilege. A year of hearing that consciousness was shifting.
I retched. In my imagination, I smashed windows.
I looked him up online. My god, he was a sweet-faced baby. A handsome twenty-three-year-old, until he was a headline on the kitchen floor. Found there by his grandmother and baby brother. There were demonstrations in Casey Goodson, Jr.’s hometown, but nothing here in Kansas City. Nothing on Facebook, where football games and plates of food got honored. In my imagination, I cussed out my friends. Why weren’t they as mad as I was?
In a crowd of protestors near the Ohio Statehouse, there were his mother and family attorney, calling for justice, urging peace. With the impenetrable government facade as backdrop, his mother’s loss spilled out in heaving sobs.
If I couldn’t bear this, how could she? How would she?
In bed, I said a metta prayer for her. For mothers of murdered sons. For mothers of absent sons. For mothers. Grandmothers. Baby brothers. Families bearing loss. For all beings in all realms. May they be free from suffering.
During the day, when she came to mind, I trembled. In my imagination, we were together in her house, staring at the spot on the kitchen floor. We sat knee to knee. I put my hand on hers.
All beings in all realms … are they real? Casey Goodson, Jr.’s mother is real. She’ll have to fry eggs in that kitchen.
I sent her a card.
The rigidity in my body eased, like armor removed. I spread my arms in release and welcome. I felt permeable.
Then the police killed Andre´ Maurice Hill.
Another one taken. There will always be another one taken.
I’m not supposed to bear grief. I’m supposed to bear witness.
To all who love my lost boys, I vow to be open. Let your grief pass through me on its endless journey.
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