Polynesia for Black Lives Matter by Sierra Van Rossem

 Polynesia for Black Lives Matter

by Sierra Van Rossem

May 25th, 2020: It was Memorial Day, which meant I was able to sleep in and get a day off of work and school. The sun outside my window peeking behind my pillowcase, sought attention from me in the early morning. I reluctantly ignored her until I couldn’t help but feel her warmth through my closed eyes. It was an extra Sunday, that happened to fall on a Monday. My mothers’ pittering footsteps on the cold tile in the kitchen and the growling rumble of the coffee machine sputtering out the ambrosia of life pulled me up and out of my deep slumber. My mother walked in a somber pattern, reflecting on the significance of today’s Holiday. Each step had a little drag, each breath had a little sadness, eyes looking down into her cup of life in remembrance. Remembrance of my Papa, a man who lived with blood on his hands but never spoke a word that was filled with hate. While he never uttered the words, “I love you”, his heart beamed through the way he lived. My mother and I sat together at the kitchen counter, breathing life into one another, reminiscing what we had lost but being grateful that we have each other. 

After our moment of rest, we sat back and decided to tune in to the world, scrolling on our phones and turning our TV on. The white noise of media and news flashing in the background filled our senses and brought us back into the present. The present of 2020. Where the past three months we have been locked in our houses, secluded from our neighbors and loved ones outside of the walls of our home. Where the only way we could see what is happening outside the thin walls of glass is through our magic boxes connected to the internet. Hugs and kisses were replaced with likes and emojis. A night out with friends shifted to long calls over zoom, showing off what he had ordered-in or tried to make in our kitchens. Late nights I would spend in the library studying, in-between hours of laughter and jokes with my roommates turned into nights I would lay under my blankets dreaming of a life I wished to go back to.

The world’s eyes have always clung to screens, but the perspective had somewhat shifted. It was no longer focused on what we had to do every day, but around what is going on in the world outside of myself and the bubble I am quarantined in. While it may have seemed we were plugged-in more than ever, it had almost seemed as if there was a switch in the world that was flipped that initiated self-actualization within the human race. There was an increasingly growing hunger for connectivity and community that was sought through media. Grasping onto snippets of others’ lives to feel a sense of content that, yes- others are feeling grief, loss, anxiety, and yes- you are not alone in the waves of depression that hit every day from living in a box. 

There’s something about the pace of everyday life, the pace that seems to never end with new pathways and roads to take towards being who the universe or God intended you to be. It is easy to get caught up in this rhythm, especially in a society that frames your worth around your success. So what has changed? Why has the pace seemed to have stopped altogether? - even though the clock of time still ticks away with every breathe I take. My days seemed to feel as if I was moving through them in slow-motion. Paying keen attention to every keen detail. 

This is what happened on May 25th, 2020. The people of the world who were forced to pay attention to what was happening outside of their own lives was awoken from a deep slumber. A slumber full of ignorance that meant bliss. A slumber that allowed one to work and live for themselves to seek the validation of others and contentedness. This slumber was awoken in eight minutes and forty-six seconds. A breath that ceased to exist from the pressure of a knee on a kneck. The kneck of a brother, George Floyd. 

The news on the TV swarmed with reporters talking about the incident. The comment sections on my phone seemed to be waking up in a scream that called out in pain. My breath haltered and tears rolled down my cheeks upon watching a video. A video of a man crying for his momma, crying for his life, saying he can’t breathe. I looked at my own mom. The most beautiful person I have in my life and thought about how I would cry out to her. Mothers are living vessels of home and safety. Even before our first breath, our mothers held us close and safely in their womb. Giving us anything we needed in order to live. George Floyd cried out, in search of needing someone who would help him live- from someone we all know does it best. 

As I watched George Floyd take his final breath, I watched the fear that sleeps deeply in my soul climb out of my unconscious. The fear of a life being taken, the fear of being alone, the fear of needing someone to call out to but receiving nothing but having my throat severed from the vessel that carries my life. This fear lies in everyone but takes different forms and pushes people to react differently. For some, it stems from a sense of control- not being able to control your own life or others around you. This can lead to aggressive and manipulating behavior. It can be stemmed from misinformation and values that were taught or instilled in one that was rooted in ignorance and/or hatred. When I say this, I am not speaking of men or women, or any specific body of people- but the whole human race. The truth is, the fear we feel, the fear that overwhelms and manifests in different forms is the fear of life itself. 

Prime examples of this became transparent in the life of George Floyd. The police officers involved in his death were overwhelmed with fear. They were overwhelmed with the fear of doing their job correctly in order to be successful in a society that bases your worth on your accolades. They were overwhelmed with the fear of having to be the powerful protectors the society around them labeled them as- even though they themselves are human and broken and weak. They were overwhelmed with the fear of not understanding when to put morality above what their society says they should do. They were overwhelmed with the fear that had been subconsciously instilled in them that it is evil in this world and that evil is associated with darkness and that darkness can be associated with the dark skin of a man. They were overwhelmed with fear that there are a heaven and a hell and that people who are labeled as criminals have hell living within them. They were overwhelmed with the fear that they held the power of life or death in their hands and needed to act on it. This fear, that was stemmed in them- led to aggression, miscalculation, racism, inhumanity, confused morality, controlling behavior, ego-centric actions, and injustice. 

I myself, could not relate to this fear. I had to force myself to understand it and acknowledge it because I have seen this fear manifest into manipulation, controlling behaviors, and abuse in my own life- and in my mothers’ life. The fear of being seen as lesser or weak based on your gender and the color of your skin. The fear that others won’t see you as who you truly are, because they have preassumed biases. The fear that you need to fit into what society says success looks like, but not having the resources, education, or background to get there. The fear of being stuck, stagnant in a world that has history saying your skin is dirty and your voice is meaningless. This is the fear I understood, the fear that was molded into me based on my upbringing and culture. 

It sometimes feels easy to push this fear away and pretend it doesn’t exist. Especially when it isn’t affecting you or your loved ones directly because you are caught up in the societal grind to be successful and prove that fear wrong. But then, there are moments like this. Moments that cause your world to stop and look at those around you. 

What made George Floyd’s death different? Because in reality, everyday we see an endless list of names flash across our screens of our brothers and sisters getting murdered and screams of injustice that get drowned out in the media. What made his life catalyze a movement that had been long-in-waiting to explode. Maybe it’s because this time we had no other choice but to pay attention. We had to sit and watch the reality we are living in- that people of color are marginalized and victims of injustice in our society. Maybe it was George calling out for his mom in his last moments, that brought us back to our senses that something here isn’t right. Where there was severally people standing by idly, as he took his last breathes- gasping for his life. Ultimately, I believe it is because we saw ourselves, our loved ones, our family, in his life. The Black community has carried the one of heaviest burdens of continuous injustices and ruthless racism throughout their extent of living in “The Land of The Free”. To the point that our black brothers and sisters do not know their roots, they do not know where they are from before their ancestors were torn from their homelands and into slavery. Where they were used as objects and assets rather than human beings. Where they were robbed of their identity and had to fight for their voice or a seat on the bus. Where they have continuously lived in a society that is built against them. 

People from all backgrounds and races came together to declare and proclaim that Black Lives Matter. That there are injustices and racism rooted in our society that must be addressed. The United States of America is comprised of people who fought and seeked a better life. A life that is full of freedom, opportunity and justice. George Floyd died on Memorial Day, a day that honors those who have died fighting for that freedom. A day that my family mourned our Papa, who served in the U.S. military to earn citizenship and give me a better life in America.