I Don’t Want Black Girls to be Strong. I Want Them to be Free.

When Derek Chauvin’s murder trial began, I promised myself I wouldn’t follow it.

My disappointment from the lack of accountability in other cases had evolved into an almost complete lack of hope. It seemed pointless to wave the thought of a guilty verdict before my eyes, knowing it’d be out of reach. But throughout the trial, that guilty verdict remained within view. I grabbed at it.

So, there I stood in the produce aisle of Meijer, watching the livestream from the courtroom. I kept looking around to see if anyone else was tuned in with me, to see if anyone else cared, but they continued shopping.

After the verdict was announced, the camera panned to Derek Chauvin’s emotionless face, and I went numb. No feelings of liberation, no urge to celebrate. The shock set in, and it was too much for me to confront in a public setting. I put my phone back in my pocket and continued to shop.

I’ve seen countless Instagram posts of bullets ripping through Black flesh and pooling blood onto city streets. I still hear the final cries and pleads from the videos on Twitter. “Please, don’t kill me.” “Please, I can’t breathe.” Visuals never seem to fade away like other memories do. They occupy an overwhelmingly desolate space in my mind, and just when I think I can’t take anymore, another one goes viral.

While the world was reacting to the Chauvin verdict, Twitter informed me a child was killed by police in my hometown of Columbus, OH. Instead of scrolling, looking for entertainment as I imagine White people get to enjoy social media, I get news like that. Over and over.

There was no time to heal from the trauma of one killing before I saw bullets pierce a new body. This time, it was a 16-year-old Black girl.

Ma’Khia Bryant was killed less than ten minutes away from the neighborhood I grew up in. The neighborhood I was free to be a little Black girl. The video of her death has made a dreary home in my mind, but this one is unlike all the others. This one is personal.

Even when 12-year-old Tamir Rice was killed by the police in Cleveland, a month after my 14th birthday, I honestly didn’t think, “Wow, that could’ve been me.” I was able to detach from police killings in other parts of the country. With a false sense of security, I held Columbus to a higher standard, thinking it could never happen here.

Maybe my naivety was a coping mechanism to help me manage the impending fear that has consumed so many of us at every turn. But how do I run from this when it occurs within the bounds of my so-called safe place? How do I face it when it happens to a girl who looks just like me?

People are busy debating whether or not her death was justified. Meanwhile, the only person who could truly help us understand the situation is dead. She didn’t get the chance to defend or explain herself before she was given a death sentence.

In the eyes of the police, she was nothing more than a threat to eliminate. I struggle to believe they would have shot a white girl four times in the chest. Would a white girl be seen as human first, knife or not? Would police have shown her compassion?

I’m tired of seeing Black girls robbed of their innocence. The expectation is for us to be strong, but how much should we have to endure because of it? I don’t want us to be strong anymore. I want us to be free.

Alencia Lang is a junior journalism student at Kent State University.