BLACK. LIBERATED. AMPLIFIED. CULTURED. AND KEY
May 31st, 2020 marked the beginning of an emotional week for me. It had been six days since the death of George Floyd and six days I suppressed my emotions. However, on May 31st, my emotions overpowered me, and I could not help but mourn. Not only did I mourn for the losses of Ahmaud, Breonna, and George, but I mourned at the thought of Breonna being myself, Ahmaud being my partner or George being my father. No one wakes up in the morning expecting to die at the hands of injustice. No one goes to sleep, safe in their homes expecting to be awakened by death. Ahmaud didn’t go for a run expecting to be hunted down and lynched in a modern style. Breonna didn’t go to sleep and expect to be awakened to eight bullets by police. George didn’t expect to have a knee pressed into his chest for 8 minutes and 46 seconds. I don’t expect these things to happen to me either as I go about my day, but the sad part is, it could be me. It could be my partner; it could be my family member because we all have one thing in common: We’re black. Our skin color means that we have to expect the unexpected. Our skin color means that we could one day become a hashtag. Our skin color means our dreams don’t matter and our life doesn't matter. No one knows how their life story ends or when, but it’s unfair that black people have to worry that their life story will end in vain, will end unjustly, will end in pain, and will end because they’re black. During the week I had to limit my time on social media because it was triggering to be reminded that black life doesn’t matter. White people will never know how that feels. This is trauma.
I know I am not the only black person who feels the way I just described. When we see a black person die at the hands of injustice, we feel it. Our deaths have become so normalized that our trauma has become it too. Our people have been watching each other suffer and die at the hands of our oppressors for centuries. Think about the Africans that were separated from their families during slavery. Think about the black people who witnessed lynchings. We are living the same story, just told in a different way. We don’t go outside and see strange fruit hanging from a tree, but we can go on social media and see it everywhere, reposted and replayed by every media outlet with no censor. Even though some of us are no kin to those who have lost their lives like Ahmaud, George, or Breonna, we still feel the pain and suffer the trauma from these experiences because of unrelated fictive kinship.
Defining Unrelated Fictive Kinship
If you google the definition of unrelated fictive kinship there will not be one, clear cut definition. This term is broad and can be used in several different contexts. This term is most often used by sociologists and anthropologists to describe people who aren’t related by birth but have a significant, emotional and familial like relationship with another person. God parents, play cousins, and referring to someone as “sis” are perfect examples of this.
Unrelated Fictive Kinship and Trauma
My theory is that unrelated fictive kinship induces trauma in the black community. There is a level of connectivity between all black people across the globe because of our shared experiences of oppression. We are all one; we are all connected. Therefore, when something happens to one of us, it affects all of us. Whether it is an accomplishment or a shortcoming of another black person, we can feel it because of unrelated fictive kinship. Melissa Harris-Perry further explains this in the video linked below.
Watch 22:35 - 26:47
As Melissa Harris-Perry explains in the video, the accomplishments of unrelated fictive kin can make us feel proud but conversely their shortcomings can also make us feel ashamed. It’s a form of empathy, but also a form of trauma. Likewise, Dr. Joy DeGruy explains in her book Post Traumatic Slave Syndrome that the feeling of shame is a trauma response and a sign of vacant esteem. She identifies this response as “feeling responsible for the entire community.” She uses the example of a black person watching television and hearing about a crime that was committed. Before seeing the suspect of the crime, they immediately think, “I hope the suspect wasn’t black.” If the suspect is black, there is a feeling of shame because they feel responsible for the entire community and they take on the weight of the entire community.
Similarly, when we as black people heard, read and watched the deaths of Ahmaud, Breonna, and George we took on the weight of the entire community. We saw the injustices and empathized with them even though we are not related to them. Our level of empathy and connectivity towards our community is so deep that we are able to experience pain, happiness, and shame based on other black people’s experiences and accomplishments. Breonna was my sis. Ahmaud was my bro. George was my play uncle. Like I said in the beginning, we are one. This is unrelated fictive kinship, and this is our collective trauma.
Dear Black people,
Take care of yourselves. Take care of your mental health. Do not be afraid to seek help or guidance. Our collective trauma is not to be ignored. Even though we come from a long line of resilient people, that does not mean we should not take time to heal. We must heal in order to move forward.
This is part two of the four-part B.L.A.C.K. Series. Stay tuned for part three which will share my unpopular opinions about interracial relationships in the black community and how they are counterproductive to the goals of the black community.