I was 12 years old when Trayvon Martin died, and watched in confusion as his murderer got away. Every week after that I would watch my parents plead with my brothers to stop leaving the house in a hoodie. The summer before I started high school, Mike Brown died. It was the first time I felt truly angry at my country, and my consciousness of what it means to exist in a Black body grew more potent. After that, it was Eric Garner, Tamir Rice, Freddie Grey, Sandra Bland, and an innumerable amount of names that only a few of you would recognize.

 

For my entire teenagehood, it felt like two weeks couldn’t pass by where I wasn’t bombarded by images of dead Black people. It’s painful to admit, but I reached a certain threshold where I was desensitized, mostly because at that age I didn’t know what I could possibly do to help end the police violence against my people. I felt helpless. So, I focused on school, on friends, on protecting my joy. But the weight of being Black in America never lifted itself from my chest. It’s a constant state of confusion and rage that ebbs and flows.

 

The only things that helped with this, in my case, was the resurgence of Black art that came out of the movement. When Solange sang “You’ve got the right to be mad!”, I felt that shit! When Barry Jenkins, Jordan Peele, Mati Diop, and Boots Riley showcased the multifaceted nature of the Black experience, I felt that shit! And when Tyler the Creator said “Tell these Black kids they can be who they are”, you know damn well I felt that shit too. 

 

Now I’m 19, and reliving the exact same cycle. Because I attached myself so much to the Black art that came out of the movement, artistic expression soon became my favourite outlet to express my frustration. I no longer feel as helpless as I did when I was 12 because I’ve found new ways to articulate myself and cope with this hyper-awareness of what it means to exist in a Black body.