Confessions of a Hater

This morning I am thinking about how, when I was little girl, someone said I should never say the word “hate.”  She said it was just like swearing.  Well, I don’t know about that, but for the past few days I know I’ve been feeling it—full throttle, real and raw.  So, at the risk of offending some, I’m going to drop the H-bomb.  I hate that, upon hearing the news of nine people being killed at their church in Charleston, South Carolina last Wednesday night, I had to make myself be okay all day at work and wait until I got home to cry.  I hate that, while walking the aisles of the grocery store this past weekend, I didn’t want to make eye contact with White people.  I hate that I wondered if any of them secretly shared the sentiments of the shooter or, worse yet, shared his deadly intentions toward me and other Black people.  I hate remembering some of the memes and messages previously seen posted on social media by people I’ve called friends, referring to young Black men as “thugs” and suggesting that, “if they would just follow the law, they wouldn’t have to worry about being killed.”  I hate realizing that, on the issue of the nine law-abiding Black people who were murdered last Wednesday night, those friends have been virtually silent.  I hate that I have been seriously wondering, who really are my friends?  I hate that, of all the White people I call “friend,” only one has spoken with me about this.  I hate every reason that hindered others who wanted to say something but didn’t.  I hate believing with all my heart that, if a young Black man had killed nine White people at a church service, he would not have been donned in a bullet-proof vest and escorted to protective custody.  I hate believing that, if the circumstances were reversed, a young Black man would have been shot and killed, without question.  Beyond the events of last Wednesday evening in Charleston, I hate the social system that allows for assassination of the character, confidence, and consciousness of Black people while the perpetrators are shielded in protective vests of power and prejudice.  I hate accepting the truth that education, quite often, is not the great equalizer.  I hate knowing that, as a teacher, I can’t share enough visual aids to overcome blindness of the heart and mind.  I hate knowing that I can’t provide enough real-world, concrete examples to break through the age old walls of privilege, apathy, or intentional ignorance.

I hate that I felt tears well up in my eyes each time a White person greeted me with “Hello” or “How are you today?” or a deliberate smile while I was out taking my walks the past two days.  I hate that I could not resist responding in kind.  I hate that, even now, I feel the undeniable force of Love poking through my armor of sadness.  I hate that I don’t know quite what to do with the tangle of emotions on the inside.  I hate knowing that a decision to believe things can somehow be better will make me vulnerable to potential hurt and disappointment.  But, more than anything, I hate the thought of giving up.  So, for today, I will lay down one H-bomb for another.  For today, God help me, I will hope.