M. Suzanne Terry

As the grand jury’s decision in Ferguson was announced, I did something unusual for me. I have ignored my Facebook feed and have clung to the hashtags #Ferguson and #blacklivesmatter. I am not quite myself today. This is the fourth or fifth version of this post, and this is the nicest way I can say it. I know I’m usually Ms. Every-Voice-Matters, but the truth is that some of them don’t to me.  Not today.  Maybe not ever again.

I am ignoring my feed because I don’t want to see any of my friends’ faces next to a defense of this decision. I am nervous about going home for Thanksgiving and hearing it there. I am combing through the documents of evidence presented to the grand jury, but if anyone wants to have a conversation about it that is not tempered by grief and loss, they’ll have to have that conversation with someone else.

I am unwilling to believe that a system in which a young man can be denied due process and killed by a one-man judge, jury, and executioner without the case inevitably going to trial is a system that works.  At all.

I don’t understand how anyone, knowing anything about our country and its history, can hear an officer describe how he looked into the black face of his alleged (because remember – never forget – Mike Brown never got his trial) attacker and saw a demon – something subhuman – and not be triggered by how much that REEKS of Jim Crow.

Sitting here and reading this little bit of history repeating, I cannot view anything other than further investigation as justice.

People can hide behind The System and How It Works and shut their eyes against anyone for whom it doesn’t, but they don’t get to do it with me. I know it looks complicated, but it’s really not. Black lives matter.  You either agree with that, or you don’t. And if you don’t, I don’t see myself putting my precious effort into taking anything you say seriously.

I used to talk about laying down privilege, but there was always something inside that bucked against that notion. I assumed it was my own privilege talking – the fear of being without its protection. And that’s probably part of it. But when I look at the benefits afforded to me by my white, well-educated, employed, straight(ish), cisgendered, healthy(ish), beloved daughter of two still-alive and still-married parents existence, I see another reason for my hesitation. I see my ability to walk – or even run – up to a police officer of any race and not get shot. I see my ability to walk into an establishment with my currently imaginary significant other and not be denied the same service enjoyed by others. I live, move, and work in a world where my mental, emotional, and physical states are not treated as arguments against my humanity.

I hesitate to lay down privilege because I am angry that these benefits are considered privileges. They are basic human rights and should be the shared experience of everyone who is human, not doled out selectively, based on arbitrary demographics.

Nor will I wear my privilege like a cape as I swoop in to save the day. I am not anyone’s savior. In fact, I’m sure there are areas in which I am so blinded by my privilege that I don’t even realize I’m part of the problem.

But I am listening. And I will not stop speaking up. When I see injustice, I will say so. If you find that annoying, maybe you should examine why. Look for a little chunk of privilege wedged in your own eye, because that’s probably where that’s coming from. You might want to get that checked.

I had planned to extend an invitation during my Easter Feast course to other people to guest post about what it means to them to be invited to the table. I’m not sure it can wait until then. More information coming soon.