Sonya Massey - "I am so tired."

A day in the life of a Black Women...

Today is July 23rd. The day I write this. 

My body is like a clock; at 6:30 a.m., I wake up, pray, and list five things I’m grateful for. I roll over, grab my seemingly unplugged and dying phone every morning, and scroll on TikTok. This day was no different. As I get the courage to get up and start my day, I learn about the murder of Sonya Massey. Initially, I was taken aback, sick to my stomach, fearing I would be unfazed and desensitized to the killings of black individuals.  It happens too often. I feel like I’m drowning in “say their name” stories, and I can’t keep my head afloat in the massive tides that are my tears and emotions. 

Today felt extra sluggish. I got up and saw the gloomy sky as if the earth knew we were mourning. I woke up to a household full of black girls and went on my phone to catch up with my black friends. I got a call from one of them and told her all that had been going on in my life, and since we live miles away, we chatted for hours. We talked about me, her, our hair, music, and our relationships, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell her about Sonya.

 I’m sure she knows, and I know, but we’re talking about the future, planning our vacations, reassuring each other about our next steps, and finding safety in our friendship. But I want to talk about Sonya, and I can’t. All I can do is feel dread and despair. So I let her go and enjoy her day before someone else or the internet exposes the truth. I get off the phone and sit in the car, and I think. I finally decided to put my phone down and close my eyes. The first image that came to mind was Sonya in her nightgown, knowing my mother had a similar white one.

 A puddle swells up in my eyes, and I cry. I exhale and whisper, “I am so tired.” I am tired, not scared, not terrified; I am tired. I’ve had too many mornings like this one.  I don’t even know who to be angry at anymore. This goes far beyond police brutality. This is not a rare case; this happens often, and it’s always a black person’s death recorded that sparks the need for “change.”

How many people have to die for real change to be implemented? How many murder porn videos have to circulate for answers to be had? There is a fundamental level of misogynoir and anti-blackness ingrained in the fabric of this world that allowed Sonya to be murdered in her own home by the very same people who are supposed to protect and serve. 

“I rebuke you in the name of Jesus,” an ironic foreshadowing of what’s to come. I see Sonya in my friends, family, peers, and those I love. How could a joke turn so deadly in a matter of seconds? I feel safe nowhere unless it’s in the comfort of my community. Parts of me want to deal with this alone and spare another black woman the pain I’m feeling from watching that sick video. Part of me wants to write until I can’t write anymore. Part of me wants to yell and scream, and another wants a hug. I feel stuck, uninspired, defeated, hurt, scrutinized, and criticized. I feel naked; I feel helpless and hopeless.  A type of vulnerability that comes with the intersectionality of being black and woman.

I’m tired of writing the same things, I’m tired of having the same conversations,  I’m tired of seeing ANOTHER black family display their pain on TV. I’m tired of being in fear. I’m tired of the performative activism and the 24-hour Instagram stories.  I’m tired of it all. 

What does real change even look like? I don’t know. I know the cop getting fired isn’t enough. I know the protests aren’t enough. I know the tweets aren’t enough.  I wish I could take the advice and turn off my phone, but this follows me. Black women are not safe anywhere, not within our employment, not within our communities, not with the police, not with doctors, not with the firefighters, not even in the comfort of our own homes. We can’t even call on Jesus without getting shot. The most disrespected human is the black woman, and this is proven time and time again. 

So, I go to bed emotionally exhausted and drained, reminding myself not to internalize this pain. Hoping that the following day, at 6:30 a.m., I can wake up, pray, and list five things I’m grateful for — something Sonya should be here to do, too.