Blackness under the western gaze is not sentient - it cannot think or feel in any civilized way, which is the only way that counts. A prerequisite of these archetypes is the inability to feel pain - and denial of pleasure, conversely - and the failure to perceive pain in others: an utter lack of basic humanity. We of darker persuasions cannot mourn ourselves every day, or can we? Are we built to mourn and live like this? The twin archetypes of the strong black woman and hyper-masculine black man have the answer: of course, we are built for this. As long as its another black person, and not myself, whose family will have to deal with the aftermath of their unjust loss (and no real hope of actual justice), how does that affect my mental health? Why grieve at all? Who is even listening - we ourselves are tired of grieving and listening to others grieving for us. We want to say with Mamie, “Look what they are doing to us! Still!!!”, and are grateful for this chance, but also frustrated and shameful that our cries continue to fall on deaf ears. A black person does not really discuss black people dying without also feeling a subtle contempt or masochism, but there is also gratitude when black death is made public (à la Mamie Till, Emmett Till’s mother, insisting for the world to see what America did to her son by having an open casket funeral for his unseeable soul) - because there are so many black deaths that are ignored by mass media, or simply forgotten - but how could one forget what one never thought was worth knowing, counting, excavating, cherishing? It’s almost as if you can kill a black person for existing, while also denying they ever truly existed.
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