I don't know what Trayvon Martin's last words were. I don't know what Tamir Rice said either. I wonder what Breonna Taylor talked about before going to bed that night. I do know what Eric Garner and George Floyd were saying before they were killed by police. I can't breathe. When I started painting masks this spring, it was a way to use up a surplus of cardboard boxes in my house and to do something concrete. Around mask 15, I had this idea to paint James Baldwin after seeing a portrait of him that I liked, and because I want everyone to read him until we live in a time where his words seem like history rather than words needed every day. Then I tried my hand at Frida Kahlo even though I have no illusions that I can manifest her in portraiture better than she did herself. The news crept in, and I learned that Ahmaud Arbery was shot, then Breonna Taylor, and now George Floyd was suffocated, and others who have been murdered without witness or video proof whose names I may never hear or learn. I don't watch the videos in fear that I will become numb to the visual of watching a fellow human be murdered. Repetition is not always a good thing. And the list starts in my head of Michael Brown, Trayvon Martin, Tamir Rice, who am I forgetting? John Crawford III. Who did I forget to name? Names matter. Who did I forget? I painted Breonna Taylor, and I don't think I got her quite right. I put a halo over her head. I got that right. I am thinking about whether to paint George Floyd, and then I wonder how will I keep up with the list. It's as if I think painting will stop the murders. I have this memory that keeps going through my head. It is from July 13, 2013. It is the day that Trayvon Martin's murderer was allowed to walk free and there was another news story that was filling my Facebook feed. In Charlottesville, several young white women won their day in court against the police officers who had tried to stop them. The women were coming from a meeting about sexual assault and were on edge. The police officers were in plainclothes and banged on the window of the car to get the women to stop. I don't remember why, it doesn't really matter now. The women in their fear did not stop. They were not shot and the court found them not guilty. There is more to this story, and I am really happy that it ended in the way that it did. That day all of my white friends were posting this story and celebrating the court's decision. I live near Charlottesville, so this makes sense. However, there was a contrast in the feed. All of my black and brown friends were posting in grief that another black boy's death had gone unpunished. I don't remember a single post from a white friend about Trayvon Martin. I don't think I posted anything about either story, but I remember the day. I remember being really troubled that none of my white friends were posting about the killer of a black boy walking free. Why didn't we? I also remember being completely frozen by what my role should be. I did not know how to process what I witnessed from my little corner. I keep working on that. I still don't know what Breonna Taylor talked about before going to bed that night. I do know that I will run out of gold for halos if we don't figure out how to listen when someone tells us that he can't breathe. “To be a Negro in this country and to be relatively conscious is to be in a rage almost all the time. ” – James Baldwin
2 Comments
Mary
5/27/2020 01:18:45 pm
Beautiful.
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Indira
5/27/2020 03:06:16 pm
Thank you!
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