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It began with a regretted tweet. My useless heart felt broken. My useless heart felt sorry for itself after another senseless police shooting of yet another innocent Black man. The replied tweet scored a decent rate of engagement. People liked it. Mostly other white women liked it; white women like me with useless broken hearts and momentary lapses in self-awareness. To other white women, the tweet was relatable. To other white women, the tweet put words to their feelings. But when push comes to shove, fuck our white woman feelings. Fuck our broken white woman hearts.
I wish my broken heart had the power to change this world. #JusticeForJacobBlake #JusticeForBreonnaTaylor #BlacklivesStillMatter #BlackLivesMatter #BlackLivesMatterUK #NoJusticeNoPeace — Your friendly Antifa representative (@HOnuanain) August 28, 2020
My broken heart is pointless. No amount of my ‘woke’ tears and hand wringing will bring back the use of Jacob Blake’s legs. My vicarious horror cannot paper over the horror witnessed by the Blake children. It cannot dilute their trauma or restore their innocence. My broken heart cannot restore breath; it will never breathe life into the lungs of George Floyd and Eric Garner. My broken heart is no hero. She cannot strike down racists, stop the unaccountable monsters in their tracks, and restore a justice that never was. My broken heart is useless. My broken heart is my own damn problem. My broken heart is my ego vying for affirmation and attention. This is not about me. I look like and I share the unearned privileged of the white racists raining down terror and bloodshed on Black communities. What can my feckless tears possibly contribute? My broken heart needs to step back, shut the fuck up and listen to the words of those with a flesh, bone and blood stake in this battle.
My unsolicited, futile little white heart is going back to her room to reconsider her hubris and do better.