Uncomfortable Yet?

Samuel Zita

Father of 2 in Chicagoland Area

French-Caribbean

Newly Uncomfortable

I am comfortable….

I am comfortable.  I have effortlessly moved through the various stages of life for the most part free of struggle and strife.  Suits me, then again why wouldn’t it?  As far as I can remember I have always understood what is expected of me and have sought to meet those expectations, secure in the belief that as I hit those well-laid out markers, I would be rewarded with a rich and bountiful life.  The trick is not to take unnecessary risks and stick to the ‘middle way’ on the well-trodden path of life.  A time honored formula which, for us the minions who subscribed to it, has allowed us to make our way through life without living a single day, yet all the while be comfortable.  The formula works, make no mistakes.

I had a comfortable childhood, lived in a comfortable house, surrounded by supportive parents, went to a comfortable school, got a comfortable job which facilitates my comfortable living in a comfortable neighborhood.  By all accounts, a fairly successful, comfortable life.  So comfortable in fact that for years I could not be bothered to get off the proverbial couch.  Like countless others I have watched as black men are blamed for all the ills of society and be made to pay for it on a daily basis.  Killed like dogs. I have shouted, screamed, cursed, writhing with anger, appalled  – all from the couch.

I railed against racism – from my couch.  Too comfortable to stand.  

Sure I ranted like a lunatic now and then “Black is the color of evil, everyone knows it.  It is taught in every Sunday school.  Sin blackens the heart.  God is light, a light which shines through to push back the darkness.  Blah, blah, blah…Why the fuck would you expect there to be no racism?  It is the underpinning of your entire belief system!  Religion is not the black man’s friend and if God is to be his friend we better hope that what we are talking about here is a black light.”

Yes, we.  I, a black man, railed – from my couch.

I do not rail anymore.

It should come as no surprise that I raised comfortable kids. Nice, well-behaved suburban kids.  Children of the way, the ‘middle-way’ that is.  They were raised to make no waves.  Living in the alternate reality, that of the well-educated, well-to-do ‘browns’.  Unable to fully identify with the plight of the black man, seemingly untouched, free from the heavy yoke carried day in and day out by millions of folks with their skin tone.  In a bubble of their own.  One of mixed heritage – mulattos, blacks, whites, Puerto Ricans, East Indians. Deluded into thinking that the way they view themselves is the way they are perceived.  Not realizing that for all their differences, the plight of the African-American is also their plight.  These were the middle-school years.  Too young to know any better.  In high school, they became woke.  Or was it Freshmen year in college?  They have then since had their own experiences with the system.  The bubble long gone.  Like countless others they too have been repeatedly victimized, ushering them unceremoniously into the brotherhood; the brotherhood of the oppressed.

“Like countless others they too have been repeatedly victimized, ushering them unceremoniously into the brotherhood; the brotherhood of the oppressed.”

Unlike their father, they were not content to sit on the couch, occasionally ranting from the balcony.

Yesterday I accompanied both our children to a Juneteenth protest in the South Loop.  One of the many protests they have attended in the past few weeks.  

I must admit, I was still on the couch.  

I was there first and foremost to look after the kids.  No sense in lying.  The crowd must have been three, maybe four thousand strong.  Energized, enthralled by the speakers, then the march began.  I hung back a bit, following the kids at a distance.  

The image of my children shouting to the top of their lungs, letting out their anger, their frustration, their disillusionment, their hurt will stay with me until the day I die.  My son’s clenched fist spoke of a deeply personal struggle. This was no ‘borrowed struggle’.  My daughter leading the chants echoed of generations past.  

‘No justice’…’No peace!’  

I could not have been prouder of them.  I could not have been more ashamed of myself.  

Somewhere between 23rd and 18th, I got off that couch though.

‘This is what democracy looks like!’…’This is what democracy looks like!’…I found my voice.  Sheepishly at first but soon booming along with thousands of other voices.  I will no longer say that we should pray for the situation to get better…or lament the situation in this world…I will let whomever wants to hear (and frankly at that point I don’t give a fuck if you do not want to listen but you will hear)…

‘Get your knee off my neck!’  ‘Get your knee off my neck!’ ‘Get your knee off my neck!’

Comfort is the enemy.  We are lulled into inaction, spewing banalities and useless bits of trivia when our sons and daughters are getting killed day after day.  It is time to get uncomfortable.  It is time to make everyone else uncomfortable.  Real uncomfortable.

Can you hear them?  Can you hear the throng? 

‘Get out of the house, come into the streets!  Get your ass off the couch, come into the streets!

From one who knew the couch all too well.

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