Breathing While Black is Punishable by Death

breathing while black

Today, being Black in America means you are at risk of being killed by police while selling loose cigarettes or CDs, or going to a party, or wearing a hoodie, or breathing (or not being able to breathe), or running away, or being fully cooperative.

Last week, activist and Advancement Project Boardmember Jesse Williams spoke passionately about the need for systemic reform. His speech was a call to action in a world where the names of Black folks murdered at the hands of police have become nothing more than hashtags for thumb activism.  We watch in horror as another slaying is caught on videotape, and then sob and shake our heads in pure frustration when police officers go free despite damning evidence that proves their guilt. We share memes about injustice, and ask ourselves why this is happening, until the next shooting inevitably occurs. And the cycle continues, despite public outcry.

It is not our hearts and minds or those of our allies which require adjustment, but rather the hearts and minds of those who are blind to injustice that need to be transformed.

Many of us in the movement have worked tirelessly to change the systems and laws that have prevented people of color from living safely and thriving. But one system – whose job it is to protect and serve, has failed us time and time again. The brute force with which law enforcement mistreats, abuses, and kills Black and Brown people demonstrates a real disregard for those lives. Mainstream media helps to uphold the idea that Black lives are less valuable than those of Whites, while misconduct by law enforcement proves it’s true. We live in a society that dehumanizes and criminalizes Black people so that when one is killed at the hands of police, the media is quick to present “evidence” that depicts them as unworthy of being protected. It is a system that gives police a free pass to murder innocent people.

Like you, I am fed up. I stand in solidarity with the families of Alton Sterling, Philando Castile, and so many others who have died at the hands of police. My thoughts and prayers go out to them. But I know that’s not nearly enough. So many of us are preaching to the choir with our activism. But we’re preaching to the wrong people. It is not our hearts and minds or those of our allies which require adjustment, but rather the hearts and minds of those who are blind to injustice that need to be transformed. And law enforcement must be at the top of the list.

Perhaps what Jesse Williams offered up is a good next step. Let this be an opportunity for us to make it our collective business to better define the role of police in this country, and to really examine the practices and policies that allow the murders of Black people to continue. The current system lacks accountability and consequences, which makes it a safe space for this kind of behavior to persist.

Until we have justice, until we have dignity, and until we stop being murdered, we will not stop fighting.

Those who hold onto the idea that #AllLivesMatter without understanding the importance of #BlackLivesMatter will continue to be defensive and unyielding by holding onto their racist views. If we as human beings aren’t fully committed to changing hearts and minds, then hate, fear, and ignorance will continue to fuel the war on Black lives.

A recent video highlighted an experiment where Germans were asked to sit down with refugees and look them in the eye for four solid minutes. In short, the result was compassion and understanding. You can watch the video here:  Watching it made me realize how important it is to have one on one connection with people who don’t look like us in order to see their humanity. But how can we foster understanding and mutual respect when many people’s views are informed by racist representations of people of color by the media?

We must not let up. We must continue the conversation and be willing to challenge the current police state and the implications it has for the Black people upon whose backs this country was built. Until we have justice, until we have dignity, and until we stop being murdered, we will not stop fighting.  In the meantime, continue to say their names: Alton Sterling, Philando Castile, Eric Garner, Mike Brown, Sandra Bland, Ezell Ford, Tamir Rice, Travyvon Martin…


Black & White: The Exociticization of Mixed Race Women in Western Culture

As published in Volup2 Magazine, April 2015

dont_touch_my_hair_by_curlsclub-d77uqlcHas a White woman ever touched your hair without permission? It happens to me more often than not. They want to know, “Is it real? Is that all your hair?” Yes, and please stop petting me like an exotic animal. “Ohhh, mixed people are the most beautiful. Don’t you think?” No. I don’t. I think beauty is a social construct. I actually don’t say that, but I sure as hell am thinking it. The thing is, I’m being paid a compliment, and the person paying the compliment doesn’t know they are fetishizing me. But how do you explain to someone who subscribes to mainstream ideals of beauty, all the racialized nuances of what they are saying?

The mulatta has historically been the subject of much fascination for centuries. The iconic female figure of racial ambiguity has represented the exotic “Other” – an object of male fantasy in which mixed race women are reduced to their body parts. And the danger in exoticizing us, is that we are reduced to objects to be admired, or even conquered. It is in this way we dehumanize and further oppress mixed race folks, which only adds to the complexities of racism. All women of color have been exoticized and fetishized in various ways, but this story is mine, and so what you read below does not exclude others from having had similar experiences.


I am half Black and half Italian. My honey-colored skin and curly hair give me a certain kind of privilege in the world. I am perceived as being more attractive than my darker sisters because our society has engrained in us the insufferable idea that lighter is beautiful, and somehow more valuable. This prevailing hegemonic cultural attitude has perpetuated competition amongst Black women for centuries, with dark skinned women getting the short end of stick. I have been praised, exalted, and envied for something I was born with, rather than something I earned, and I struggle with it daily.

My mixed race identity has always been a bit complicated. Having been called an Oreo by Black classmates in grade school made me insecure. I struggled with what it meant to be described as Black on the outside and White on the inside. I quickly discovered that I was perceived as thinking I was better than they were because I talked like a White girl, and that made me the enemy. My acute sensitivity and inherent shyness were no help to me. I was not quite sure where I fit in.

you ain't nothin but a damn oreo!

As a college student I tried to fit in with my Black peers, who I wanted to connect with, especially living on a small, mostly White campus. And I began to make friends until Black guys started asking me out instead of my dark skinned sisters. And I was not any smarter or more charming than my counterparts. Rest assured, I was made to feel special because of my light skin and “good hair.” I felt a lot of guilt about this, but also reveled in having the male attention I’d been denied as an awkward high-school student. I yearned for those friendships, but valued being attractive to men much more at that time in my life. And I didn’t fully understand the implications of my choice until later in life.

I remained angry and confused about why I held privilege over women with darker skin and kinkier hair than mine. And despite the fact that I am half Black, to voice my frustration to Black women who were darker than I, felt dangerous and patronizing. I feared sounding like a White person who says, “I have lots of Black friends!” Which of course, is incredibly racist, because it implies that someone who has tremendous privilege (White people) can understand the oppression of others (people of color). And they never will. Just as I will never know what it’s like to live in a world that sees dark skin and kinky hair as third rate – undesirable even.


And so when people pay me a compliment that alludes to my mixed race, I am polite, but indifferent. Because what they are really saying is that I’m beautiful because I’m just different enough. I’m Other. Though it may not be intentional, this type of fetishizing feeds into racism by reinforcing western beauty ideals that say to be too brown is overly exotic, and to be too pale isn’t exotic enough. And thus I am left with the feeling that I am somehow racially superior in many ways, yet I belong nowhere. I have been systematically reduced to an object of societal fascination.

I have also had the experience of White folks not seeing me as a Black woman. They have “otherized” me, which somehow gives them license to test out their racist theories about people of color on me. I am often shocked at how bold they are. It’s as though my light skin blinds them to the fact that I am a woman of color who has experienced oppression. And so it falls upon me to school them. To tell them that I am a Black woman – that Black women are as diverse in skin color as we are in culture, and that all of us are valuable.

Recently a co-worker made a comment about how nice my skin is. She asked what I do to take care of it. I told her, and no sooner did another co-worker come up and say, “It’s that Italian genetics working for you.” I said, “Actually it’s my African genetics. Haven’t you ever heard the saying good black don’t crack?” I said it jokingly, but really I meant it. My point is that people are so reluctant to ascribe any value or beauty to my Black side that I have to check them. It’s as though being half Italian (White) has won me a VIP pass. And I love my Italian culture very deeply. But it doesn’t require defending.

Good Black don't crack! (1)

The problem is that many folks are not as interested in celebrating my Black side. They don’t want to know that my mother is a Ph.D. and tenured professor who grew up in the projects of Boston, being called Black and ugly. They are not interested in knowing how intentional she was about making sure I understood the implications of the unearned privilege I was born with as light-skinned child in a highly-educated, middle-class family. They do not understand how I struggled to find my identity in a culture that demands we choose sides. I’m lucky. I’m not too brown and not too white. I’m just right. I’m exotic.


But, who am I really? I’m the daughter of a socially conscious interracial couple who have been married 43 years. I’m a writer, a feminist, and an activist. At age 39, I’ve settled into a life that includes a progressive White husband from South Dakota, and a diverse group of friends who are committed to having discussions about race, oppression, and sexism. I am a lover of food—everything from the collard greens and spaghetti I grew up eating, to the tasty concoctions I prepare in my South Los Angeles kitchen. Phrases like, “Chile, please” and “Andiamo,–dai!” roll off my tongue in equal measure. I have found peace and purpose in my life as a Black woman who speaks Italian, wears her hair natural, and challenges the status quo. I have the kind of balance that I’ve always wanted, finding strength in my mixed heritage, and making sure to use my privilege to highlight injustice in the world. I’m not an object after all. I’m just one human being trying to make a difference.


Dear Mr. President and the Rest of the World, Why Aren’t you Helping Find the Missing Nigerian Girls?

I want you to imagine 230 Nigerian high school girls studying in their classrooms, preparing for their final exams, excited about their futures because they have an education Imagine that one of them is your sister or your daughter or your niece. One night, while sleeping in her dorm, the military arrive telling the girls that danger is eminent and that they must follow at once. They follow willingly, believing the men in uniforms, because they are accustomed to living in a place where the terrorist group Boko Haram threaten their right to go to school.  Once loaded onto a truck, the men light the school on fire and holler praises to their God.  Your daughter, niece, and sister realize that the men are not who they say they are. They begin praying and begging for their lives

  Photo by James Marshall/Corbis

The men travel with your daughter into another country and force her to marry a strange man who buys her for $12, and will likely rape her and strip her of her innocence.  She is now a slave.  She cannot go home.  She is scared. She wants her family.  I want you to imagine that no one is really talking about it except the families of these girls in a small village most of us have never heard of.  Understand that it’s getting little news coverage and that the government isn’t doing nearly enough about it.  You realize you may never see your daughter, niece, sister again.  Just like that, she’s gone.

Now imagine that this happened in a first-world country like the U.S..  Do you feel any different? Are you as outraged?

I read an article that made an interesting comparison in the amount of news coverage between the South Korean ferry boat tragedy and these recent abductions in Nigeria. The author points out that the kidnappings took place two days before the ferry accident, yet the Korean story dominated the news for a week. Why?

 AP/South Korea Coast Guard via Yonhap

Well, South Korea is a first-world country with lots of media outlets.  We got to see the parents of the students in agony, jumping into the water to try and find the bodies of their children. It was heart-wrenching and awful.  But Nigeria is a third-world country that is unfamiliar to the west, and doesn’t get much news coverage. We don’t see the suffering parents of these girls who are undoubtedly grief-stricken and desperate.  And so it is difficult to wrap our hearts and minds around this story, to feel the same level of empathy and horror when details are slim and a few blurry photos are all we have to connect with.

But the pain is the same. The parents of the Nigerian girls love their children just as much as the South Korean parents do.  Their grief is the same. They bleed the same red blood, they cry the same salty tears, they wail the same haunting prayers.

AP Photo/ Gbemiga Olamikan

I have yet to read any stories that talk about what is being done on a global scale to bring these girls back. UNICEF and UNWomen need to be doing more to get the Nigerian government to intensify their search efforts.  Countries like the United States will happily stake their claim on Nigerian oil, but they have made no effort to help restore its real treasures — the stolen girls.  We have the most powerful military in the world and yet we only employ them in ways that benefit us.  Our priorities are all fucked up.  

I want President Obama to imagine that Sasha and Malia were among those girls.  I want him to be angry and do something about this NOW!

And I want you to be angry, and sign petitions, and educate people about what’s happening.  We cannot let this story get lost in the fray of other stories.  I see those girls in my dreams. They need all of us to help bring them back. Yes, they need YOU too!

I will not lose hope.  I will use my voice because those girls can’t.  I will make a ruckus because I am free to do so in my country.  I will plaster my social media outlets with this story and force you to pay attention because these girls matter.

Those 230 beautiful, innocent girls are our sisters, our daughters, our nieces. Please use your privilege and power for good and help bring them home.

In solidarity,

An Honest Letter to the Guy That Created #FatShamingWeek

Roosh Vorek, author of the blog Return of Kings (no, I will not provide a link to his site), is a self-proclaimed misogynist who couches his anti-feminist and fat-phobic rhetoric under the guise of concern that masculine superiority is losing its stronghold on Western culture. He also coined the hashtag #fatshamingweek which failed miserably when he launched it last week.  

If you don’t know who he is, then I’m incredibly happy for you.  

ROOSH BELIEVES (these are direct quotes from his website):

  1. A woman’s value is mainly determined by her fertility and beauty. A man’s value is mainly determined by his resources, intellect, and character.
  2. Women are sluts if they sleep around, but men are not. This fact is due to the biological differences between men and women.
  3. Ironically, the less you respect a woman’s intelligence, the more you will retain her interest long enough to get her into bed. You can’t turn a millenial chick into a philosopher, no matter how much you educate her. 
  4. Fat people are all self-absorbed assholes. Like an alcoholic, all they care about is the next slice of double stuffed crust pizza cruising down the conveyor belt. Instead of craving the high of drunkenness, they lust for the rush of harmful nutrition.
  5. Considering how self-absorbed feminists are, it only makes sense for them and fatties to unite. This often takes the form of “fat acceptance,” which is always couched in feminism, which means it is meaningless. It claims people are not responsible for their personal choices, that other people exist to validate them or mollify their self-hatred as it inevitably bubbles up when McDonald’s runs out of nuggets. Their feminism is simple extension—others exist to maintain their personal emotional state. And that state is never your responsibility. It was the gift of fatphobic patriarchy that privileges those who care about themselves over those who want to waste away in a fat-encased shell of a human body. 

Roosh states emphatically that women and homosexuals are prohibited from commenting on his site and that they will be immediately banned.  He has a right to say all these things-I believe in free speech.  However, I cannot support stupidity.  And so I write this letter to him.

Dear Roosh,

If only your parents hadn’t dropped you on your over-sized head as a child, I might not have needed to write this letter shaming you. In fact, I’ve started a new hashtag:  #RooshIsADouche. See, it even rhymes.  I know you don’t think I’m capable of this great feat (#rhyming) because I have a vagina, but you’re wrong. Let me break it down for you Douche. I mean, Roosh.  

Audre Lorde

See, feminism isn’t about devaluing men or what they offer. It is about lifting up women and recognizing that we are more than just baby-making machines that serve you up meatloaf and mashed potatoes whilst wearing corsets and stilettos.  We are people. And while we are capable of doing all of that, we also simultaneously get PhD’s, run for President, and masturbate, because men like you are incapable of getting us off.  We are not equals, you and I, because you are a blubbering fool. 

You say the term “fat acceptance” means that fat people are not responsible for their personal choices, and that feminism exists to make us feel better about ourselves.  Perhaps we can liken that to your use of Viagra which makes you feel better about being impotent.  But I didn’t start a hashtag called #impotenceshaming week because I’m not an asshole.  

It seems to me, Douche, that if feminism didn’t exist, that you would have absolutely nothing to talk about.  Is your masculinity so much in question that you must try to prove to the world that having a dick means you’re better than I am?  Prove it.  What do you offer the world that’s so fucking great? Yeah, I didn’t think so. 

I contemplated not writing to you about your failed attempts at shaming me and my people because I honestly thought it would give you bigger a platform for your bullshit.  But upon further reflection, I felt it was my duty to shine the light upon the sheer ignorance with which you pontificate on what most people agree is an archaic way of seeing the world.  And hopefully it will inform all types of people on what NOT to do when trying to be a decent human being.

And the thing is, your hashtag didn’t get much buzz because it was dumb and mean-spirited. Most sensible, decent people just aren’t going to jump on that bandwagon. Sorry Douche, but misogyny and fat hatred are the NOT the new black. 

Ya know, I don’t think you really hate women and fat people. I think you hate yourself for being feeble-minded and unoriginal. To spew your brand of hatred means you are in a dark and ugly place from which you may never return. Hell, I feel sorry for you. Perhaps a chunky female psychiatrist with a dual degree from Berkeley can help you through it, in between training for a marathon, raising her family, and feeding the homeless.

Wishing you radical change,

P.S. Oh, and you spelled “millennial” wrong.