My Black, American, weaponized trauma

I made a Facebook post yesterday (5/6/20) about carrying a gun from now on when I walk my dog in my predominantly white neighborhood. I wanted to add some context to that statement. And here it is. 

I am not a “gun person.” I don’t carry or own guns for sport or recreation. But I am a legal gun owner. I do believe in personal protection. My father carried a loaded revolver with him 100 percent of the time. It was always either on his person or in his vehicle within reach anytime he left his home. It was always loaded and ready to use. That was his practice from the time he was a teenager until the day he died at 71 years of age. 

His father Ralph Donaldson, Sr. was murdered by a White man in 1948. The man shot my grandfather in front of plenty of witnesses because rumor had it he was sleeping with the man’s White niece. No arrest was ever made. No investigation ever took place. There was no trial. In short, no justice was ever served for my grandfather. His black life did not matter. That took place in Jonesboro, Arkansas, the same town I attended college in and where plenty of my friends and loved ones still reside. My father wasn’t even out of diapers yet. He had no memory of his father, only the story of his murder constantly regurgitated to him over the years. The truth of what happened to his father haunted him his entire life. It plagued him to the point that his way of escaping it was to enlist in the Army and go to Vietnam in order to get out of the South. Understand, my father, being an only child, was not drafted. He made the conscious decision to go to war rather than stay living in Jonesboro, Arkansas. He did one tour, re-enlisted voluntarily and returned to Vietnam for a second tour, all to avoid going home. He survived that war. And although he decided to no longer live in Jonesboro, he had no choice but to come home to America and the same white supremacy and racism that robbed him of his father. 

Long story short, my father had to live with that trauma from his cradle to his grave with no relief. Now I understand why he was so adamant about carrying a weapon at all times. That was the only solution or resolution he could fathom should he ever find himself in danger due to the color of his skin. I have felt a nagging since of heightened trauma and fear since George Zimmerman stalked and killed Trayvon Martin, then was acquitted of it. 

1948, 2012, 2020...not much has changed, huh? The trauma for Black folks remains the same. It just continues to be compounded and continues to grow year after year. It would be nice to think that unspeakable racist violence could never happen to me. It would be nice to think that could never happen where I live. I would love to think I’m safe today and will always be safe. But that’s a lie. It’s simply not realistic. I am Black in America. I am Black in the Midwest. I am Black in Illinois. I am Black in Rock Island. I’m Black on 13th Avenue. Just last year, a racist asshole pulled a gun on four Black, teenaged football players who were fundraising in her neighborhood just like their White teammates. She saw them, pulled the gun and made them lie down on the grass. That happened in the small town in Arkansas where I was born and raised and made national headlines. By the way, she wasn’t arrested or charged until it made national headlines, days later. Her trial is ongoing. Just imagine what the headlines would have been had she decided to pull the trigger. White supremacy is and always has been as white supremacy does. When they decide one of us must die at their hand, we see what happens. As long as I’m Black, I am not immune. It can happen anywhere racism, hate and bigotry exists. And that’s everywhere, unfortunately.

I, like my father, am traumatized by that fact. And I now share his feeling that protection is my only option. I can’t concentrate on prevention anymore. I can’t just be hopeful that I’ll never have my life threatened by racism or hate. I’d be a fool to think so. I’m no better than Ralph Donaldson, Sr. I’m no better than Trayvon Martin. I’m no better than Emmett Till. I’m no better than Ahmaud Arbery. 

So that is the context behind my immediate need for heightened personal security. That was not a post encouraging gun ownership or in favor of carrying a gun. That was a post about my solution to my trauma. So yes, for the rest of my life, I will be a lawful weapon holder. I have no other choice. And that makes me so very sad. I’m not happy to own a gun or carry one. I’m sad I need to. I am incredibly sad that is my Black American reality.