Jordan Davis_2

God bless Ron Davis and Lucia McBath, the parents of Jordan Davis. No one should have to celebrate their child’s 19th birthday mourning the injustice of a legal system that empowers white sociopaths to lynch our children—whether with rope or with a gun, whether in 2013 or 1913—and get away with it. I do recognize that Michael Dunn, Jordan’s murderer, will likely go to prison for the rest of his life, having been found guilty on three counts of attempted murder and charges. Still, I find no solace in this, knowing that for whatever reasons, a jury could not find its way toward a 1st degree murder conviction in the shooting death of Jordan, who was killed in cold blood for sassing a white man over loud music.

I have to admit, as a writer and advocate for Black families, I am finding it increasingly difficult to write over and over again about my anger—finding it impossible to keep saying again and again that the persecution and killing of our babies is non-sensical. On this day, as in all the others, I feel angry. I feel disgusted. I feel powerless. I feel… empty.

I penned the words below just six months ago when George Zimmerman was acquitted in the murder of Trayvon Martin. It disgusts me that the name of yet another Black child is being added to the long list of kids murdered—once by their assailants and once, again, by the American judicial system. I share these words once again here on MyBrownBaby because I’m flush out of new ones.

Happy Birthday, Jordan Davis. Love and light to you, Mr. Davis and Ms. McBath. Your son’s life matters. Truly, it does.

* * * * *

Who prays for our sons?

When their bodies are bloodied, broken and frozen in the footnotes of this, our complicated history, who falls to their knees, head bowed, hands outstretched through storm and cloud and toward the warmth of the sun, and prays for the boys, the fathers, the uncles and nephews and friends? Our brothers?

Whose tongue will confess when another Tracy Martin and Sybina Fulton and another Ron Davis and Lucia McBath and another Dominika Stanley and Charles Jones and another Carol Gray and another Wanda Johnson and another Saikou and Kadiatou Diallo and another William and Valerie Bell and another Moses J. Stewart and Diane Hawkins and another Mamie Till have their hearts torn from their bodies with the news that Trayvon and Jordan and Aiyana and Kimani and Oscar and Amadou and Shawn and Yusef and Emmett won’t ever again make them laugh or hold their hands—won’t ever bow their heads in church pews or rip open Christmas presents or inhale deep and blow out the birthday candles or say, simply, “I love you, Mommy,” and “I love you, Daddy”? Who wipes their tears—our tears—when they and we know, too, that their babies—our babies—will never, ever come home?

This wicked system of things—it simply is not natural. The murders. The outcry. The half-assed investigations that seek placation, rather than justice. The, “No really, we give a fuck, but not really” stories flooding the 11 o’clock news that go ignored by the “real” Americans while they eat their microwave popcorn and keep up with the Kardashians and the Real Housewives of Wherever, unmoved save for their keyboard gangsta conservative (and always anonymous) racist rants in the HuffPo comments section.

You know what else is not natural? The getting away with it.

The. Getting. Away. With. It.

Of course, there is no surprise in that part of it—the part where Zimmerman and the many like him who came before him walks free. Extreme sadness, yes. Anger, too. And disgust. Definitely disgust. But surprise? No. This is the American way. For us, there is no justice.

Just… us.

Still, it is becoming increasingly hard as an African-American mother to explain and to instruct—to dream a world in which my babies can do/say/be as they please in the land of the free, where, clearly, they are not… free. When black children’s bodies are stereotyped and policed and dissected and disregarded and taken without recourse, when something as simple as buying Skittles and wearing a hoodie in the rain or listening to loud music can get you murked, when American law licenses white men to stalk, attack, shoot and kill someone’s baby and brag and giggle about it in front of an international audience, it’s kind of hard to assure my kids that it’s all going to be all right. Especially when I’m not convinced of this. How do we make our kids feel safe when we don’t feel safe?

And so we are left with our fears. Fears that leaped out in Technicolor when the jury in the George Zimmerman murder trial pronounced him not guilty in the shooting death of Trayvon Martin and in technicolor again when a jury deadlocked on finding Michael Dunn guilty in the shooting death of Jordan Davis. Our children are in the crosshairs. And Zimmerman’s attorneys just laid out for the world to see a blueprint for how to buck down black boys and men and get away with it. The heart is heavy. And it throbs and aches.

This is normal. And it is okay. I co-sign a Facebook status my writer friend, the brilliant and prolific dream hampton, sent up my timeline this past weekend: “Be in your pain. You are human and this verdict is deeply inhumane.”

Inhumane.

Say that shit with your chest. From your gut. Because it is true and right and tamps down the hurt—just a little bit.

But even as we work through the pain, we must respond to it. James Baldwin once wrote in a 1970 letter to Angela Davis, then a political prisoner, that it was the duty of Blacks to fight for her life as if it were our own, “for if they take you in the morning, they will be coming for us that night.” I channel this thought as I talk to my own girls and my stepson about Trayvon and Zimmerman and Jordan and Dunn and the justice system and just us. I channel, too, Martin and especially Malcolm: “We declare our right on this earth…to be a human being, to be respected as a human being, to be given the rights of a human being in this society, on this Earth, in this day, which we intend to bring into existence by any means necessary.”

I kick off my response by exercising the most human of responses—the most human of actions: I hug my babies and rub their backs and kiss their cheeks and let them know, for sure, that they are loved with abandon. That they are valued. And valuable. More precious than anything I claim. Even my breath. The very beat, even, of my heart.

And then we talk. And talk some more. About Trayvon. About Zimmerman. About Jordan and Dunn. About the law. And the history of the American justice system and our place in that. And Emmett. And the Four Little Girls. And all the white men who walked free and clear as Black mothers and fathers cried out over the caskets of their babies.

They must learn.

As we pray and confess, our children… must… learn.

And then, together, we fight.

With the might of the angels, with our babies on our backs, we fight.

* * *

Here are a few of the things I’m doing to lift my voice on behalf of Jordan Davis:

I will be boycotting Florida. No vacationing, no speaking, no attending conferences, no spending my black dollars in a state that says regularly that black lives/votes/concerns are not welcome there. I’ll return when the Stand Your Ground laws there are overturned. In the meantime, I won’t so much as drink Florida orange juice.

I’ll be supporting the Coalition To Stop Gun Violence, which is working tirelessly to overturn Stand Your Ground laws and get Congress to implement common sense gun reform.

I will continue to vote (to raise my voice against politicians who support Stand Your Ground laws and also to keep my name in the jury pool, which is important) and mentor children and participate in school activities and lift my voice here at MyBrownBaby, as each of these things, surely, will surely help chip away at this madness.

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Denene Millner

Mom. NY Times bestselling author. Pop culture ninja. Unapologetic lover of shoes, bacon and babies. Nice with the verbs. Founder of the top black parenting website, MyBrownBaby.

14 Comments

  1. Thank you once again for speaking the words in my heart that couldn’t make it past the rage in my mouth. I’m newer to this, being the white mom of black children my husband and I adopted at birth. Not having grown up being black, I find it harder to find the right words to warn my children and look to my friends for advice and solace. I’ve discovered the fear that black parents have known forever of my son (who is not yet two) never coming home from the store/basketball practice/a party, and not being able to depend on the police and courts to care enough to find and prosecute his murderer because he’s just a “thug”. It’s like I got thrown in icy water, and it’s such a shock and I’m outraged, and I look around and there are other moms in here with me who are frozen because they’ve been in here for so long.

    • Joy,

      Welcome to MyBrownBaby and thank you so much for your comment. The thing about that icy water is that if we stick together and work together to demand justice for all of our children, we can get warm. And we can survive. I encourage you to find ways to join all of us mothers of children of color in finding ways to make this—our country—better for us all.

  2. Thank you, Denene, for always finding the right words for the unspeakable. I’m heartsick. Again. Trayvon, Renisha, Jordan. Our beautiful children are being taken from us with laws that should protect us. Just the other night, I asked my husband (only half jokingly) if we should plan to move out of the country when our son becomes a teenager. He looked at me like I was crazy. But I will do anything to protect my child. I know the answer is not to run but sometimes it seems like that is all there is left to do. Now I am a mother on fire. I will not go down without a fight for my child and the black and brown children like him. We’ve done it before during the Civil Rights movement and we can do it again. Thanks for continuing to be a positive voice for families of color and putting the important issues front and center.

    • Thank you for your kind words, Portia. Some days, I just want to… be. I don’t want to talk about other peoples’ hang ups or try to explain to them why the way our children are disregarded is wrong. How I wish that we could simply talk about which diapers are better, or great ways to get our kids to sleep, or show pretty pictures of our children and take them for what they are—pretty pictures of pretty babies. But it always feels so… tainted. And some days, it gets tiring. But, like you, I fight. Because we HAVE to. For our babies’ sake. Thank you so much for supporting MyBrownBaby, my love.

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