Black on the Fourth of July

The only time I was ever swept away in "America" was on September 12, 2001; I may have even bought a flag. However, that "we are one" euphoria was short-lived for me, once I realized that that chronic Black hatred was now being cruelly focused on the Muslims (American or not).

I was then, and still now, am crystal clear on the reality that once the dust settles, that innate Black hate always returns to its intended victims. I do not surmise that our Black bodies are not wanted on this colonized land. It is not conjecture to say that our presence is not cherished, nor that our contributions are recognized. I speak from my own experience and from the many casual conversations I've had with my community.

Why would I raise the American flag and celebrate the independence of this stolen, bloody land? Why would I celebrate the white people who mercilessly raped and beat and sadistically murdered my ancestors, and my contemporaries?

I feel no passion. No pride. I am not moved to celebrate patriarchal hegemony or brutal racist colonization. I will not perpetuate the lie of this country by pretending the past did not happen or that the present is not taking place.

Although I may hang out with friends and I will definitely pray for peace, I will most certainly not be cheering at any 4th of July parades.