Dear Reader;

As the mother of two Latino boys, as a person of color, as an immigrant now a citizen of the United States, as a human being… these last months have been hard and emotional, at times devastating and downright terrifying.  Then can Tuesday with a bang, full of Justice with the end of the trial for ex police officer Derek Chauvin for the murder of George Floyd last summer.  Justice in the form of a GUILTY verdict for all charges.  Justice is served… something rarely seen in cases like Floyd’s where an African American man dies at the hands of a police officer, just for being black.  George Floyd’s death was witnessed by the world thanks to brave young people who recorded on their cell phones and bared witness.  Because of them we all witnessed George’s life pressed away by a suffocating and unrelenting knee, by a heartless man who still does not think he did anything wrong.  I often think of George Floyd’s family, especially his little girl.  Her daddy became the face of an incredible worldwide movement fighting for hundreds of faces that cellphone videos did not get to capture.  Her daddy who will never get to kiss and hug her goodnight.  Do not get me wrong, this movement gathered strengths never seen before in all corners of the world all at once.   A movement born out of confinement caused by a pandemic that has killed over three million people up to date.  What a coincidence, what an opportunity born of misfortune.  Yet, I cannot help but wonder if all of what has happened during these months will make enough of an impact to propel us to change, to save guard the right to live of our people of color in the United States. I cannot help for fear for my boys, for all of our boys. 

            On March 29 reports that Adam Toledo, a 13-year-old young Latino teenager, was shot and killed by a police office in Chicago while unarmed and without posing any type of threat to the office or anyone around.  We could all see on the officer’s body camera video that this child was not a threat or armed.  Why?  Why are officers on the offensive?  Why do they always claim their lives where threatened?  On April 12 Anthony J. Thompson, 17, was shot and killed by the police while in school in Georgia, because of reports of a physical altercation with his girlfriend.  Again, not armed, again, not white. 

            Do you remember Tamir Rice, 13, shot and killed at the park while playing with a toy gun?  What about Trayvon Martin, 17, shot and killed for wearing a hoody while black?  What about Jordan Edwards, 15, or Antwon Rose Jr, 17, or Laquan McDonald, 17… Kwame Jones, 17… Deon Kay, 18… Frederick Cox, 18…?  As I researched the names of victims of police brutality or shootings who happen to be of color and under 25 years old at the time of their murder, I find myself needing to walk away.  I am not sure if I am more scared than angry, but the helplessness sure gripped my heart tightly. 

            I continue reading about Xzavier Hill, 18… Michael Brown, 18… D’ettrick Griffin, 18… Ramarley Graham, 18… McHale Rose, 19… Marcellis Stinette, 19… Kendrec McDade, 19… Quintonio LeGrier, 19… Christian Taylor, 19… I can no longer contain the tears.  A dark evil hand grips my heart tight; I feel I can’t breathe.  George Floyd could not breathe.  My nine-year-old notices my silent tears and rushes to console me.  “why are you sad mom? I am here for you, don’t cry”… I hug him tight, not daring to imagine him not here.  So many mommas, so much pain.   

            Tony Robinson, 19… Samuel David Mallard, 19… I cannot stop reading their names.  They had names; they were valuable people.  De’von Bailey, 19… Wendell Allen, Daunte Write, Jimmy Atchkinson, JaQuavion Slaton, Brandon Webber, DeAndre Ballard, Miles Hall, Darius Tarver!!!!

  As I force myself to stop looking up names and learning their stories, I received a notification of yet another death. This time of one of our daughters, Ma’Khia Bryant, 16. This is too much to bear.

My 15-year-old 6-foot-2 son walks over to the desk quietly observing my tears flow and sits next to me without a word for over 10 minutes.  I stopped typing and waited with him.  “What are you writing about?”

            My love, I am writing about you.  I am writing about your brother and your sister too.  I am writing because I am scared for you.  I am here writing the names of over a dozen young souls whose lives were stolen at an age young enough to be my children.  I am writing for their mothers, for their pain.  I am writing their names because we must remember them.  I am writing for their dreams, for their ideas, for their plans.  I am writing for their first kiss, for their first-time driving.  I am writing for each time they stepped outside of their homes and kept on walking not knowing if they would ever return.  I am writing because we must be strong, for them and for us.  I am writing because we will not give up, we will not give in.  I am writing to remember that when we join hands and hearts we can rise. I am writing because of George Floyd.  I am writing for life, for love.