Black Parade
A Black Eyed Story
Jamel Shabazz. Circa 1992-2016
Find an audio reading of this Black Eyed Story above.
I made a major life decision to no longer engage in provocative behavior. I’ve put my stick down and refuse to continue to poke the bear whether that bear be politics, religion, gender norms, sexuality, or race.
I’m through with being the instigator in conversations. I no longer want to spend hours creating posts with the express purpose of riling up entitled White women who choose to be colorblind. I am not Jesus and so I feel no need to make the colorblind see.
To be clear, I’m not rolling over or turning a blind eye or walking away from all the difficult things that need to be confronted. I’m just choosing to not be confrontational, or adversarial, or combative towards any human being. I will state the truth and keep it moving, but I refuse to dig in my heels with clever barbs aimed at Karens (of all genders).
Not only have I realized I don’t have the time to spare, I’ve come to see that none of those shenanigans ever really matter. Just as I refuse to change my position, so do they. Just as I have my people who holler back at me in our echo chambers, they do too. I’ve come to realize that all those clapbacks, fiery retorts, and takedowns did nothing more than add gasoline to the fire. All it would take is for one carelessly lit and tossed match for me to set my own dang self on fire. And if I go down in flames trying to set others on fire, who’s to blame? Obviously me – the one who lit the match in the first place.
Jamel Shabazz. Circa 1992-2016
I will state the truth and keep it moving, but I refuse to dig in my heels
with clever barbs aimed at Karens (of all genders).
There is this strange belief that liberation, resistance, and justice must be loud, painful, and reactionary. There’s this narrative that bold truth-telling is only bold and truth-telling if someone’s feelings are hurt. To me, this perspective is tiresome and draining. What an arduous journey! And as a descendent of Black folks who, with their sweat and weariness, already paid the price for my emancipation: to spend my days toiling for liberation feels backwards if not downright disrespectful to their legacy. My people marched for the liberation of the autonomous blossoming of my joy. Therefore joy – unspeakable, uncontainable, unflinching, relentless joy – is my resistance.