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When no one cares about another dead black boy [RaceTalk]

While waiting to catch a bus home with his friend Duwayne Brooks, Stephen was suddenly attacked by a group of White teenagers, alleged to have yelled “What, what nigger” before stabbing him twice in his chest, severing two arteries and collapsing one lung.

When the ambulance and police arrived Stephen was close to death and rushed to the local Brook Hospital, but no first aid was given. In fact, Mrs. Lawrence would lament that in all the commotion no one heard her son’s last words:

“Young people often pretend to be tough, but I know my own children and they are certainly not hardened or brutalized. So I am sure that in his last moments Stephen would have been asking for me. If only the police who came to him had been more attentive, they might have heard his last words. There is so much that is missing… and no one will ever be able to tell me what he was saying as he died.”[2]

Stephen Lawrence’s murder was brutal, senseless and made even worse by the fact that to this day the five young men believed to have killed him, the same five people who were identified just one day after the murder, have never been brought to justice.

I am no longer willing to be the Only One [John Raible Online]

I am no longer willing to be a token representative of diversity. I am no longer willing to walk into a room, a party, a workplace, a church, a family gathering, or a conference and be the ONLY ONE. Been there, done that. And it is always anxiety-producing; often it is painful. When I walk in, expect me to look around and count how many people are present who share my identities. If I find myself the ONLY ONE yet again, don’t be surprised when I walk out. The lack of diversity in any social environment is a threat to my well-being. I am no longer willing to tolerate monocultural, all-white, all-heterosexual environments because I experience them as unnatural, unsafe, and oppressive.

I am no longer willing to put my needs for safety and protection aside by putting my brown queer body into potentially hostile environments. I am no longer willing to make myself available for the public scrutiny, questioning, amusement, curiosity, and entertainment of others who don’t look like me. I am no longer willing to stifle conversation about topics that matter to me—race, adoption, racism, oppression, homophobia, heterosexism, white supremacy, patriarchy, sexism, classism, adultism, youth liberation, and social justice.

Crunchy like me []

Husband began to laugh and say, “so what you’re saying is if we do it, it’s not crunchy?”

“Exactly. Black moms aren’t crunchy.”

“Wait. None of you? In all the world, there’s not a single crunchy, tree-hugging Black mom?” (This is asked with an incredulous, dopey look.) Thanks for calling me out and demanding I support statement with evidence, Husband. (Jerk.)

So so very brave [mama c and the boys]

And he cried a lot when he realized he wasn’t getting the first Mama back.

And now I’m asking him to go back to that moment in time, but this time with open arms, a smile on his face, a good looking line up, and a button down shirt?

I’m asking him to manage all of that wordless grief, and turn it in to anticipation and ease and excitement?

Last night he let me know, in other wordless ways that that was not what he had in mind. It ended with a lot of hugs, and sobbing and shaking. The twenty minutes in between are for only the three of us to talk about.

And the counselor we’re breaking in tomorrow.

I reached out for help last night, after I got him and Marcel to sleep in my arms.

That help came in many forms.

When my adult, transracial, adopted male friend who has lived an open adoption all his life-asked if I felt like I could ask the birth mother to send some reassurance in some form that she was looking forward to seeing him too--I felt the waves parting in my heart.

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