Mailbox
So I go to my mailbox today to grab the mail. There’s a police car sitting in the business plaza parking lot across from my house. I need to walk to the mailbox a literal block away from my house to mail a check but I’m so scared to do so now, with the police presence in my neighborhood. I watch him as he sits in his car, doing nothing. He’s likely not cognizant of how intimidating he is right now. There’s a strong likelihood he wouldn’t care even if you informed him of it.
So I sit. And I wait. And my anxiety rises.
He’s been there a little over 30 minutes and I don’t understand why.
I open one of the packages I grabbed from my mailbox. It’s an action figure I’ve been wanting to add to my collection for some time now. These things usually bring me great joy. Today that joy is brief.
I want to cry. My eyes are welling up. I want to yell, scream, thrash something. And yet I sit here, scared for my life when all I want to do is drop a check in the mailbox.
I allow myself a minute to cry. It all comes flooding out: the generational trauma, the current trauma, all of it. I like to allow myself a good hearty cry every few months. Lately, it’s been every few weeks. I gather myself; I feel like I’ve got to be strong, even for myself. I view the crying as strength, the vulnerability as fuel. Black bodies need to grieve and mourn and express just as much as white bodies do, contrary to somewhat popular belief.
I inhale. I exhale. I look out my window. The police car is gone. It’s “safe” now?
“Safe.”
I guess I should go mail this check.
Wish me luck.