The traumatic events that affect the black community are never-ending. Breonna Taylor and George Floyd weighed heavy on the hearts of many, but moreso on Black Americans. After each event there is outrage and disgust by all, yet, after emotions subside, the status quo remains.
The one solace I have had as a Black woman was that these events didn't occur in "my backyard" or "on my watch." I am not naïve to think that there is no significant systemic racism within my community. But there was some solace in the fact racism hadn't reared its head in such an overtly and inhumane form where I live and work and just breathe. There was solace in my thinking that maybe, just maybe, our community had strength and integrity to keep any horrific event from occurring within the Springfield community. And, even if a heinous event occurred, I had some hope that my community at large and the powers that be would call it out and condemn all inhumane harm done to its own. There would be no questions asked to justify the care of a person in crisis needing compassionate care. We would rally and put humanity first without hesitation.
There is no solace in our Black community, no matter your education or socioeconomic status. We are all at risk. Yes, justice can surgically remove the traumatic festering abscess of the event, but the deep-seated effects of mistrust and fear remain. The harmful actions and the apathetic inactions of those in power perpetuate these wounds. These wounds never truly heal. So we as Black people continue to suffer in silence as our screams only exhaust us and prevent us from being able to deal with the "next time." Our screams land on deaf and numb ears. Is a scream a scream if no one listens or hears it? Like the proverbial fallen tree in the forest?
We scream but in silence. Our screams are in silence as they are heard as dissidence and rebellion instead of what they truly are: pleadings to be valued and treated as human beings. So, we scream in silence to maintain our jobs and our ability to provide for our families. We scream in silence out of fear. Each day brings us wondering: Is today the day that my loved one or I will succumb to the ravages of racism? We are constantly told words like "but," "can't" and "however," which tend to nullify the preceding sentences of validation. We scream in silence for the generations that screamed before us and for the screams of the next generations to come. We scream in silence because our voices are muted and no longer heard.
Will we ever be heard?
I encourage all to reach out to those within the Black community. Reach out to the ones you know and maybe those you don't know. Ask them to tell their story. I encourage you all to listen with the intention of allowing us people of color to express our truth, and to express the vulnerability we continue to experience in this country. Allow us to purge the trauma of inhumanity we or our loved ones have experienced or seen firsthand. By listening you can validate the anxiety and the unsettling emotions that are woven into the coarse fabric of being Black in America. Allow us the opportunity to begin to heal ourselves – and hopefully our future generations – as the legacy of slavery persists today. True change can only happen when there is understanding. Change requires knowledge by those who are a part of the systems that perpetuate the inhumanity we continue to see and experience.
Nicole Florence is a Black woman and longtime citizen of Springfield. She has been a physician locally for 20-plus years. More recently she is using her voice in media and print to advocate for all voices and stories to be heard, and to lessen the divide in our community. This essay was written in response to the death of Earl Moore Jr. in 2023 and remains applicable as we endure the tragedy of Sonya Massey.
