I feel like it bears mentioning that some of the people I love most are in law enforcement.
They are fair, and respectful, and kind in ways that I am not.
And I think that they picked careers that are perfect for them because they want to do good.
Because they believe in service.
I personally don’t love people enough to want to deal with the fuckery that they have to.

I commend them ‘cause they are the kind of people that law enforcement should be.

I say all that to say it’s not an either/or situation.
You can support law enforcement who are decent people
and doing good things in the community,
and still be critical of the bully boys, racists, and assholes.
Some of you need to realize that.

It’s not fuck ALL the police.
It’s fuck the police who murder with impunity.
Fuck the police who hide behind their badges.
Fuck the police who think that some lives matter less than others.
And fuck the system that does not punish or police the police when they are wrong.

Being in law enforcement does not exclude you from the law.
It shouldn’t give you a “get out jail free card”
Your jobs are ones of service.
You should and NEED to be held accountable for your actions in the course of your job.
You should be disciplined for behaving badly.

And if you unable/unwilling to serve and protect your communities then you should quit.
Or be fired.

The People deserve better.
ALL of them.

(even the black ones)

And I’m not going to lie to you, I’m not feeling very Christmassy.
This Song has been stuck in my head for months.

MONTHS.

There are 43,200 minutes in a month. ISH.
30 days hath September, blah blah blah. All the rest have 31.
Except February. February fucks up everything.
That’s a loose interpretation of how the song goes. You’re welcome.

ANYWAYS.
It makes me sad.

five hundred twenty-five thousand
six hundred minutes
how do you measure- measure a year?

So many things can change in a year.
It’s not really a lot of time.
And it’s a lot of time.
Time enough to be created and born.
Time enough to die.

How about love? Measure in love

These people are mothers and fathers
Daughters and sons.
They are loved by someone.
Somebody feels blessed for having them in their lives.
They’re best friends, and husbands and wives, and cousins.

How do you measure the life of a woman or man?

Who gets to decide if I am worthy?
Will I be judged for what I’ve actually done?
Or just what I look like?

Two hundred and seventy minutes.
That’s how long they left Michael Brown lying in the street dead.

It’s time now, to sing out
Though the story never ends

Because the story never ends.
One thousand, six hundred and eighty minutes.
That’s 28 hours. For those who don’t want to do the math.
That’s how often a black person is killed by their local law enforcement.

I went to a protest in Hollywood two weeks ago.
A march.
Because the lives of my husband, children, sisters and brothers matter to me.
Their black lives matter.

There was a die-in on the corner of Hollywood and Vine.
Four minutes and 30 seconds.
For four minutes and some change I was laying on the ground.
“Dead”
While I thought about all of the black men and women who didn’t get to get up after time was up.
Dying. Or maybe dead for real.
Who didn’t go home to their families.
Who then had their characters assassinated by the media scrounging for reasons to prove their death was deserved without due process.

I’m not going to lie to you: I may have cried a little. Or maybe a lot.

Remember the Love

So I do. I try to remember the names of black lives taken too soon.
I say a prayer for families, their loved ones.

One hundred-ninety eight thousand, seven hundred and twenty minutes. And counting.
That’s 138 days for the mathematically impaired.
That’s how long these protests have been going on.
And I hope they continue. Until open season on black lives is over.

That’s how you remember the love.

Seasons of Love

(This one is a gimme, y’all)

When I was a teenager, I hated catching the bus. I mean HATED.

Couldn’t wait to drive.
And now that I drive. I wish I could catch the bus, because I hate driving.
But I also hate waiting. And strangers. And strangers that sit too close on the bus.
Or strangers that stand in front of you so that you either have to stare directly at their junk or stare off into the distance wishing that person got a charlie horse in their dangly bits.
NO. I’m not speaking from experience. Why do you ask?

Public transportation. It’s the best. And also the worst.

Speaking of the worst (of humanity, that is) on this date in 1955, was the beginning of the Montgomery Bus Boycott.
WELL. TECHNICALLY, December 2nd was the day they borned the idea to boycott, and created fliers for distribution in places that black people hung out. But that ACTUAL boycott started Today. In 1955.
It lasted 381 days.

The flier read: “Another Negro woman has been arrested and thrown in jail because she refused to get up out of her seat on the bus for a white person to sit down. It is the second time since the Claudette Colvin case that a Negro woman has been arrested for the same thing. This has to be stopped. Negroes have rights, too, for if Negroes did not ride the buses, they could not operate.”

Blah blah blah, Bus stuff…THEN goes on to say… “If we do not do something to stop these (murders of unarmed black men)arrests, they will continue. The next time it may be you, or your (son) daughter, or (husband/father) mother.”

It’s been 119 days.

Normally this is the kinda BHFOTD I’d ignore, FOR OBVIOUS REASONS.
BUT I’M PRETTY SURE YOU KNOW WHY I DIDN’T.

Love y’all!