AN OPEN LETTER TO MY FAMILY, FRIENDS, AND SOCIETY AT LARGE, SHOULD I DIE IN THE HANDS OF AN UNJUST SYSTEM

It was a gorgeous 75° day in Minneapolis. Memorial Day, in fact — the literal definition being a day of remembrance, the definition in practice being the promise of summer. May 25th, 2020. A day that should’ve been celebrated with backyard barbecues, music, and water balloons. Marked instead by the weight of the world’s injustices crushing a man’s neck. I can’t breathe. That’s what George said, over and over. See, ’cause for black people it doesn’t matter if it’s a holiday. It doesn’t matter if you’re sleeping, it doesn’t matter if you’re polite, it doesn’t matter if you’re differently-abled, and it doesn’t even matter if you’re a kid. Blackness in America has an expiration date. Blackness in America is a death sentence.

In his final breaths here on Earth, George Floyd called out to his mother. I’m writing this letter so that I won’t have to.

To the woman who gave me her nose, hips, and stubborn demeanor. It’s every black mother’s worst nightmare to understand Mamie Till — to suffer a loss no parent should ever have to feel. When a child is learning to walk, there’s an infantile fearlessness about it. Despite threat of falling, a toddler storms forward with purpose and drive. You always nurtured my ambition, even then. But for the first time in my life, I finally understand you and your overbearing ways. You were never afraid of me falling. You were afraid of me straying too far. Walking until I found myself in a land of confederate flags. Walking until I found myself with flashing lights in my rearview mirror. Walking until I found myself in Central Park on the night of a criminal investigation. I’m sorry that your fears were proven true, and I’m sorry that I strayed too far. Grieve in my absence, but like Mamie please do not grieve in vain.

To my friends, who know every part of me. I suppose you must be feeling shocked. That you never believed this could happen to me. That, for some reason, I was the exception. It is with a heavy heart that I explain: before the world could see my goofiness or hear my laugh or observe the way I dance at bars, the world saw my blackness. I don’t expect any of you to know what that feels like, nor do I want you to. My only request is that you search for me in the faces of others. Listen to the joy of little black boys and young black girls and choose to see their blackness in the same way you saw mine: magical.

To the woman whom I love most in this world. Thank you for teaching me how to love the beach. Rhode Island, a state synonymous with falling in love with you, is a beautiful place although haunting at times. Cliff walks in Newport at the edge of the world — I would often hear the cries of my people, my lineage, my blood. A city best known as a fun summer destination was instead known to me as the very place my ancestors stood. Forcibly ushered in by boat, they were traded as commodities — bought and sold with no semblance of humanity. I’d like to believe that even if we existed back then, perhaps you’d see my shackled wrists and arms and still know that they were meant to hold you. Do not mourn my loss for very long, for I am hopeful that we’ll meet again some day. Perhaps this time as birds; then the color of our skin wouldn’t matter. You’d only have to like the way I sing and I’d only have to like how high you could fly.

To society at large, the magnificent beast which shapes all. My name is Sorvina Carr — I would like you to say it in full. I’m not a thug, or a bitch, or a black square on Instagram. I’m an artist and a poet. I love lemonade and hugs and summer is my favorite season. I’m smart. I always have been. And I don’t appreciate the way you treat people like me. Will you address the problem? The intersectional, complicated fuck-fest that you deem “survival of the fittest”? Or will you justify my death? Assign me a number, a hashtag, and move on? Perhaps I’m naive for believing you would do otherwise. But still, I dream. I guess that’s none of my concern anymore.

Yours,

Sorvina Carr