Why I Won’t Teach a Book About Police Brutality
Documenting black pain has no entertainment value for me
I grew up on the westside of Detroit. A Black enclave.
Once the first smell of BBQ filled the air and warm sunbeams replaced the city’s frigid cold weather, Black children rushed through metal screen doors that squealed until they closed shut to play outside. Girls’ multicolored hair barrettes held on for dear life as we jumped rope on cracked concrete sidewalks and rode our 12-speed bikes through the streets. Heads tilted back, laughing with rainbow-stained tongues from popsicles purchased from ice cream trucks, we were enveloped in bliss.
As we moved into our teenage years, grief from mourning the lives of our friends who were shot and killed stole our innocence and freedom. Some of us remained within the borders of Detroit. Others, like myself, packed our bags to travel to our respective universities in pursuit of our careers.
Those were our memories.
They weren’t perfect, but they were ours.
Our stories.
They were also the same stories that satisfied the hunger of institutions that craved Black narratives, not for the emancipation of our communities, but often, for the purpose of appearing to be diverse.