Today I’m not sad. I’m pissed. 

I’m not here for your “reasoned debate” concerning the lack of justice for Black murder victims. I’m not going to pretend that I buy it when you tell me the prosecutor didn’t make a good enough case or the evidence was insufficient. 

This nation, this culture, would not tolerate a system that routinely, indifferently, and brazenly failed to acknowledge the basic right to life of White bodies. There would be accountability or there would be upheaval. 

I write, not because I think my words alone will change a mind. I write to add my voice to the chorus, so that the ears of everyone complicit in and indifferent to Black suffering will ring.

I don’t want sympathy. I want passion. I want the fire that lit the way for the Three Strikes Law to pass in the wake of the murder of Polly Klaas. I want the indignation that produced Megan’s Law one month after the murder of Megan Kanka. 

I want justice, and I want it now. Don’t tell me how sad or “crazy” it is that Rekia Boyd’s killer won’t ever see the inside of a prison. 

Tell them:

And them:

And them:

And them:

Because I’m out of conversation right now.