Hand in a Pocket

melancholy

The timing of my last blog, Acting While Black, was a little ironic, coming as it did shortly before the latest incident of police brutality/murder in the U.S.

The premise that black characters rarely survive in movies of certain genres seemed absurdly laughable and it felt worthwhile to jog down that road a little bit, stopping at the glitziest and shiniest of hilarious examples.

After the past week, the humor of Acting While Black has soured in my mouth pretty much. The past week has been a case, for me, of tears over laughter instead of the other way around. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t know if this is the beginning of the end or not.

But I know one thing. I know that a pocket wasn’t meant to hold a quiet hand while a heart stopped and a voice asked for his mother.

The casualness of it…like a stroll in the park.

Having a cup of coffee while reading the paper.

Waiting for a cab.

The unruffled, hushed, serene patience of it.

I don’t know if we can change. But those who realize that the wound is where the light enters will be the ones who ask: could there be a more chilling action, ever, than that quiet hand in that pocket, waiting out the clock?