Shiva for Slain Black Americans-Jane Ranzman

A dear friend once told me about “the talk” that each Afro-American parent has with their child—whether they live in the affluent Upper West Side of Manhattan or an impoverished area of the Bronx. Throughout the years, she has told me stories about how a person of color could be zooming to the Hamptons in a shiny new Mercedes, but would be in peril of being stopped by hostile police with a hunger for an arrest. 

My friend explained how Afro-American drivers are often suspected of stealing vehicles for no apparent reason other than the color of their skin. I have listened to these horrible tales, and somehow found them hard to believe. How could my contemporaries be subject to a kind of systemic racism that normalizes hate?  This nation has been built upon it.

I called my friend the other day not knowing what to say. It imagined this was like a Shiva, a condolence call to a Jewish family. You bring bagels and cream cheese and show concern, but you don’t engage the mourners in conversation. Words can be meaningless, even annoying, to the person who is grief stricken.

“I don’t know what to say,” I stammered into my smart phone. 

My friend replied flippantly, “ Well, they tried to kill us with Covid. Now the police are killing us.” She abruptly changed the subject. I sat while she chattered about jobs, food, and eldercare. I just listened. It was a Shiva.

I have no idea what it’s like to be afraid to drive as a black person. I have no concept of what it’s like to be afraid to go for a jog, fearing this fateful decision would lead to my very last breathe.

I am breathless and confused, but know we are each on a journey that was catalyzed by the murder of George Floyd. I am an educator, and as a start, have volunteered with a language program to help recent immigrants gain fluency in English, helping them integrate into American society.

Maybe it’s a small effort, but a tiny pebble causes ripples in a pond. We cannot feel helpless, as there is so much work to do!