George Floyd was killed on May 25, 2020.
He died with three officers kneeling on him - one on his neck - as he told him he couldn’t breathe.
His wrong doing? Paying for cigarettes with a fake $20 bill.
Twenty dollars.
For all we knew he could have gotten it from someone else and just thought it was another Jackson.
The country is protesting — the world is protesting.
People who are tired and angry and afraid, with nothing else to lose but everything to lose are marching in the streets. For some, their solidarity the very thing that puts them in danger of police violence and covid infection.
Looters, geeedy and violent and filled with selfish venom smashing holes in the righteous cause.
White social media “activists” whining about the state of things, hoping to elevate the status of their “wokeness”. Telling tales of their a parasitic proximity to oppression, to tragedy.
No wonder young men’s blood boils.
No wonder women’s voices rise in loud defiance.
The layers and layers and layers and layers of this pile so high.
Can you imagine the pain? The pressure? The deep carnal hopelessness?
The weight of an entire nation’s knee on your throat?
Can you imagine needing to convince people that you have the right to live?
(Photo credit: Dai Sugano)
