Sick and Tired

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I don’t want to send any prayers out to the family of 16 year-old Derrion Albert.

In fact, I’m sick of all the goddamned praying.

I’m sick of the inevitable “stop the violence” peace marches and candlelight vigils that will take place and the flowers dropped at the place he was killed along with a teddy bear.

I’m sick of the “spiritual advisors” and “community leaders” who only show up when the cameras and reporters do. They’ll say Derrion’s murder happened because of too much rap music and the boys walking around with their pants sagging. They’ll say his death is due to the community moving away from God and the only way to get back to is to come to their church on Sunday (right next to the site where their new mega-church is breaking ground).

I’m sick of the scared white people who lived nowhere near that neighborhood who are going to pressure the mayor of Chicago into making an empty political gesture to calm their fears like putting more police on the street, police who might act as much like a gang as the boys who killed Derrion. So if you’re a young black male in Chicago, you get to choose how you’ll get your ass whipped: by 5-10 boys who think you’re a threat, or 5-10 police officers who think you’re a threat.

I’m sick of the two-bit promoters who are going to throw some kind of “Peace in Da’ Hood” concert and try to snag some big time performers like Jennifer Hudson, Common or Kanye (y’know, cause they’re from Chicago) as a ruse to get their corny MC’s or wannabe Beyonce’s put on.

I’m sick of the talking heads that will psychoanalyze the boys who killed Derrion as victims who didn’t get hugs from Daddy instead of brutal murderers who should be put on the all-dick diet in the worst jail the Illinois prison system has to offer. I’m sick knowing they probably were victims nobody reached out to before they became killers.

I’m sick of the fact that this has happened so many times before everything I said is a well worn cliche. New York. Los Angeles. Houston. Philadelphia. It’s the same sad song being sung over and over again and they all end with a mother crying as she stands waiting at the door for a son that won’t ever be coming home.

I’m sick of there being too many questions and not enough answers.

I’m sick of “charging it to the game”, sick that we’ll hang our heads for a few days about Derrion, moan about the woes of the ghetto and then it’s back to business as usual or the next stupid-assed episode of “Real Housewives Of Atlanta” (who now share a tragic connection to Derrion).

Until it’s one of ours who gets mowed down in the streets by gunfire, or bashed in the head with a 2×4.

Then it’s back to all the goddamned praying.