My dad asked me what had happened in the past fifteen days. Like, that was his question. When he knows we’re in a pandemic. Knows that there were protests against police brutality against black folks all around the damn planet.
I’m just listening. Trying to see if there will be some kind of care toward me or something. Nope.
After I answer “you know murders, protests” he jumps on to explain to me that he “knows” police brutality because once… I mean you know it’s not comparable at all. A blonde, blue-eyed boomer cannot understand (without some research) what we, I am going through. He doesn’t have dead names and dead faces floating in his soul, leaving scars for decades. He doesn’t even know what looking for a job is.
I’m listening and trying to see how or where my parents made any progress toward race relationships comprehension and so forth. They will never do that. I’m realizing this. That would kind of ruin their achievements, wouldn’t it? There’s no acknowledgement of that singular black pain whatsoever. Even with footage of crowded streets and headlines in French. Even with a black son.
So I’m sitting here in California with my white parents in France ignoring the part where I am a black man, talking to me about how the police “can be” bad. They’re not getting it. They’re soft. They don’t want nor have to face anything. Privilege.
So I’m watching them on my computer acting up about shit they don’t comprehend, while they hose me with vast amounts of disrespect and traditional love (“this shirt looks good on you”).
Once they were done with their weak diatribe, I thought “how do I know those people?”. And it’s just really painful to go through the memories. I don’t.
It’s excruciatingly hard right now. Everything but pain looks like an illusion. To better days.