Dear Amaya,

About two weeks ago you were in the back seat of the car, chatting idly about life, what you saw outside the window, and how your day went. Somewhere in there you told me how police were special people because they keep everyone safe. In that moment, I held my breath and debated how to respond. Do I affirm that lesson so that you continue to feel safe and know who to turn to in an emergency? Do I have "the talk" about how to behave around law enforcement, not out of civic duty, but out of concern for your own safety considering how brown bodies are treated in this nation? Do I give you a lesson on the history of brown people in this nation and the continued effects on our lives? I did none of those. I remained silent and decided to allow you to be six years old and innocent.

That conversation haunted me when less than a week later Baltimore exploded. Though our middle-class community feels relatively removed from the unrest, we were bombarded with the eruption of pain, injustice, oppression, and ugliness. The media tried to employ the propaganda of Birth of a Nation, but technology has allowed citizens to tell their own stories. I'm sure by the time you're old enough to read this and truly understand, you won't know a world when a handful of owners control all the media in the world.

In those images, Mama felt all sorts of emotions. I felt sadness that I was not specifically enraged about this recent murder of another brown body. It has become so commonplace that I am no longer surprised. I felt anger that the murder of brown girls gets a tenth of the response by the Black community. I felt rage at all the middle class Blacks that admonished their brothers and sisters to act "civilized" as if proper mourning will garner better treatment by the police state. Overall, I felt confusion because I couldn't and still can't find my way through this so that we can bring about change. 

I had a conversation with friends, past coworkers, and past classmates who are privileged to live in different kinds of communities, though most of us are barely one step removed from Baltimores across the country. See, I grew up in a community with the highest murder per capita rate and was ravaged by crack cocaine. I have immediate family affected by the prison industrial complex and my pulse still races when a cop car is behind me despite 2 Ivy League degrees, a 401K, legal insurance and registration.Despite all of that, many of us feel helpless and aren't so naïve to think that we've escaped being targeted because our skin is still brown. But because we come from those who dared to survive, we don't let grief or fear hold us back from finding solutions.

My comrades and I came up with these solutions to increase our power

1. We have the power to challenge oppressive images and mindsets, even when it's our own biases.

2. We have the power to speak our minds and not let fear silence us.

3. We have the power to change young minds by being honest and teaching them how to examine propaganda.

4. We have the power to examine economics and structural oppression, never believing that we've "made it" by our own will and that we are exempt from the effects of that oppression.

5. We have the power to use our success to rebuild communities, empower other, and demand justice.

6. We have the power to use art, the classroom, the boardroom, the hospital, the courts, and all sorts of arenas to effect change.

7. We have the power to create new images of power that promotes healing, courage, and inclusivity.

8. We have the power to use dialogue as a healing force.

Amaya, I pray that by the time you understand my words, this chapter in America history doesn't represent the world you live in. I pray that you and your children and your children's children know only a world that spirals towards justice and equality, one in which your color, gender, ethnicity, orientation, and income are beautiful flavors and enhancements, not death sentences or crosses to bear.

I have hope for a better America, and I know it's because all of us are in it.

Love eternally,

Mama