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Years ago when I was in high school, I forgot my lunch at home. Upset, I called my parents and told them that I had forgotten it. They told me that my dad would stop by to drop it off at lunchtime. I remember telling a friend that I was going down to the office to go grab my lunch and she said she would go with me. We arrived and when I looked at the designated table for forgotten lunches left by parents, mine was no where to be found. So I waited in the office and my friend waited with me. Looking outside, I saw the familiar green sedan pull up to the drop off zone to park and my dad stepping out of the car. "That's your dad?" my friend asked. "Yea, that's him," I responded. "He looks scary." This girl, who I had considered a friend at the time, had never seen my dad until this moment. She didn't know that he bakes desserts for me, my sister, and my mother just because he likes to. She didn't know how much he loves my sister and I so selflessly. She didn't know that he spent his weekends teaching Sunday School to kids. She didn't know how much he worked to provide for our household. She didn't know that he is one of the funniest, wisest, and kindest people I know. She only saw his blackness. The very same blackness in me. This was the first moment I can clearly remember feeling enraged at how so many people unfairly viewed black people, specifically black men. I can't remember what I said to her but I do know that I put more fear in her with my words than the presence of my ever father could. Even though that day happened almost ten years ago, my anger from that moment never faded. It has just remained dormant. That is, until days like this happen. Just the other day, I was talking on the phone with my dad and he was explaining to me the different types of masks he would wear while carrying out errands during this pandemic. He joked that he wouldn't wear a hood while wearing his mask because that would be three strikes against him: his mask, his hood, and his blackness. And we laughed. But there was no joy in our laughter. Only the painful understanding of our reality-- that everything we do, anything we wear, and every way we speak or act holds the possibility of putting our lives at risk. And that's exactly what happened to Patrick Warren Sr.

To Andre Hill.

To Stephon Clark.

To Aura Rosser.

To Rayshard Brooks.

To Riah Milton.

To Dominique "Rem'mie" Fells.

To Shukria Abdi.

To Robert Fuller.

To David McAtee.

To Nina Pop.

To Tony McDade.

To James Scurlock.

To George Floyd.

To Breonna Taylor.

To Dreasjon Reed.

To Ahmaud Arbery. To Sandra Bland. To Tamir Rice. To Michael Brown. To Nia Wilson. To Alton Sterling. To Oscar Grant.

To Aiyana Jones To Eric Garner. To Botham Jean. To Atatiana Jeffefrson. To so many others. Those that were just living until an assumption was made based on their blackness. And that assumption resulted in the loss of their life. And every day, I worry it could be anyone I know. That it could be my dad. Or my mom. Or my sister. Or my aunts, my uncles, my cousins, or my friends. That it could even be me. To be clear, this post isn't about wanting everyone to understand where I'm coming from because I know that many do not and will not. This post isn't meant to be political. It's not meant to start an argument and for the love of all things good in this world, don't start one. If you're an ally, I thank you for your support in this struggle. If you're not, I thank you too, for making it clear where you stand. In truth, it's meant to break my own silence. To no longer let my anger remain dormant and to put it to action by fueling the words I type because writing is the only way I can clear my head in this moment. To acknowledge the devastation and outrage I feel. I don't know when senseless killings of black and brown bodies will end. I don't know when we, collectively as a nation, will come to agree that this needs to stop.

But I do know that I have to fight back. That we have to fight back. We have to fight to live.

"If we must die—let it not be like hogs Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot, While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs, Making their mock at our accursed lot. If we must die—oh, let us nobly die, So that our precious blood may not be shed In vain; then even the monsters we defy Shall be constrained to honor us though dead! Oh, Kinsmen! We must meet the common foe; Though far outnumbered, let us show us brave, And for their thousand blows deal one deathblow! What though before us lies the open grave? Like men we'll face the murderous, cowardly pack, Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!" -Claude McKay