The cruel game of “I’m not surprised, but…”
There’s a cruel rhetorical game that black folks in America play every time we seek justice for our people. Our hope has to somehow sit alongside a grounded reality that what we hope for likely won’t come to pass. It’s cruel. It’s wearisome. Yet we play the game. We dance between optimism and apathy. We rally & demand while quietly holding in the depths of our hearts the unsettling suspicion that things will likely be the same as they’ve always been — the system will again win.
That’s why when Kentucky Attorney General Daniel Cameron gave his abhorrent press conference today, black folks across America uttered those eerily familiar words: “I’m not surprised, but.” It’s a phrase that reminds us that we were collectively holding our breath just to exhale in time to realize that the more things change the more they stay the same. We knew we couldn’t trust the system. We knew this black man had no intention of risking his political security for the well-being of our people, yet it still pierced our souls. They toyed with our emotions. They granted an indictment, but not our indictment. They gave justice to others but not to us. And to add insult to injury, a black man delivered the news while dog whistling to his white Republicans allies that he wasn’t one of us.
I’m not surprised, but…
I’m concerned about the internal impact of this embodied recognition of our current reality. What happens when an entire race of people is ridiculed for believing that something different might be possible? Why do we feel the need to say I’m not surprised before we shift to naming the hurt, lament and frustration that occurs as a result of our deepest pain being realized? Why must we qualify our levels of despair with an “I’m not surprised” statement? Could it be that we feel foolish for hoping? Could it be that we feel foolish for dreaming of a world where we can receive justice for our people?
Maybe freedom looks like being able to name our harm without having to qualify it. Maybe freedom looks like being able to name our pain without having to prove or validate it. Maybe freedom is being able to cry without explanation; mourn without apology; and scream without being stifled.
My hope for Black America tonight is that we get the freedom to name our pain without qualifiers. I’m dreaming of a world where we can be surprised. Hey America, surprise us. Grant us justice. We could use a plot twist right about now.
