About Botham Jean, Being Black In America, and Forgiveness

I think some of you are confused.

Nobody speaks for the dead.
The dead scream.

I have heard the cries of black bodies twisting aimlessly in the wind, strung from oak trees with branches sturdy enough to carry the burden of hate.
I have heard the screams of boys that look like me, with open palms and punctured flesh; mangled by metal and battered by batons till their eyes no longer blinked.
I have heard the shouts of young black boys baptized in a sea of white tears, gasping for equality before drowning in inequity.

I have listened. And listened.

Daily, we wade knee deep in this swamp of unrequited love, soaked in distrust, ambling toward some perverse version of freedom and justice that seems to be a 250 year trek away, and when we are summoned to the big house on the hill to identify the body of our brothers slain, we are still worried about tracking blood on the butcher's floor...

Our forgiveness is simply existing without revolt...
The daily acceptance and release of resentment in exchange for housing hope; passed on by generations - a family heirloom tucked in the back of our minds for safekeeping like an antique we hope will be worth more someday.

Neither a stone hurled, or a warm embrace clean the hands of another. Love is equal parts justice and mercy, swirled and served to those who thirst and we are quick to serve; to turn a rotted cheek with bone exposed and ignore the pain of simply breathing...
To dance and sing, drunk on this cocktail, and try to drown the voices...
But listen to me...
Nobody speaks for the dead. Not mothers, brothers, or sisters. Not friends or strangers. Not I.

The dead do not want. The dead do not get to choose. Their flesh is shredded. Their necks are swollen. Their hearts are still. Their bodies rot.

The dead just continue to scream.

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