I Have a Question for You
I have a question for you, my friend. I've been choking on it for a while, rolling it around on my tongue, tasting its bitterness, feeling its residue on my teeth.
I am afraid of the answer. I really don't think I want to know. But I have to. This tension among us is only getting uglier and I can no longer be ignorant of your response.
So here goes:
Will you say my name?
If tomorrow you turn on the news, and find that a young woman was shot and killed by police, and my picture flashes on the screen, will you say my name?
If the media peruses my Facebook, and skips the hundreds of photos of me and my wife Michelle smiling happily at the camera, of me and my mom, of me and the kids I taught in middle school or at church, of me playing football, and instead chooses one from 2009 where I am wearing sunglasses and a hoodie and a park at night as part of a collection jokingly called "Thuggin '09", will you tell them they've got it wrong?
When they dig diligently for my criminal record, and, finding none, opt for my record of suspension for one day in high school when I defended myself in a fight? When I'm painted as a savage, disrespectful, stereotypically angry black woman, will you stand up and say that wasn't who I was?
When they scroll through my 7 year Twitter history, bypassing all of my live-tweets of various Apple Keynotes, my exclamations of love for my wife and mother, my sometimes humorous commentaries on travel and opt instead for something that can be twisted to make me seem anti-authority and violent, will you vehemently insist that they are wrong?
When my mom steps to the podium along with my wife at the press conference, each of them holding up the other, and they try to speak through their tears, telling you that I did nothing wrong, that I didn't have a weapon, that I posed no threat, will you stand with them?
When the facts come out that upon being pulled over in an area that wasn't well lit, I requested to be followed to an area with better lighting, was denied, then subsequently denied the request of having their sergeant present for this, then asked out of the car and asked for my ID. When you hear that I hesitated to leave the car but willingly offered up my ID (all of these things are in character for me), will you argue that I shouldn't have asked for any "special treatment" and I would still be here?
If my wife was present and filmed the whole thing, would you still insist that you needed more information?
When my wife came into work to collect my belongings and last check, could you look her in the eye and offer your condolences? Would you wrap her in a hug and tell her to her face, "Shay should've complied."? Or will you save that for your Facebook arguments? When there is a march downtown on my behalf, will you roll your eyes and say, "There goes Black Lives Matter, demanding special treatment and hating on police again!"? Or will you grab one of the signs made by my wife and march alongside her?
Will you realize that my life was precious, and worth fighting for? Or after offering platitudes to my wife and mother at my funeral, will you continue on in your privilege, never worrying about any of it ever happening to you, blind to the fact that our system is broken and in need of change?
When I have faded away, when the tears have dried up and you've moved on, when my hashtag is no longer trending, will you still remember me?
Because you know me, have worked with me, have been taught by me, have hung out with me, will you be spurred into action? Will you see that something is wrong with this fear that I lived with every day that this thing would happen? Will you try to change something, somewhere, so that my death isn't in vain? Will you defend me as your right wing friends defame me? Will you say, "HEY! I knew her, and she is none of those things!"? Or will you be swayed by the endless media loop painting a picture of Shay Myers, the thug?
Will you stand up for me?
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