BLM has really opened my eyes to just how little white people care. There is no real desire for change, no real hunger, and it took widespread protest like this to make that naked apathy so evident.
I wanted to believe we were better than this. We are not. We care more about tone we can tune out like television commercials, about polite concern we can disregard without a second thought, about feel-good MLK quotes that don't make us uncomfortable, about the "tradition" of confederate flags flying over government buildings, and about unimpeded traffic over bridges that don't interrupt our own private, curated existences than we care for all the lives of black men, women, and children destroyed by broken, racist systems.
We are a sick people, and no amount of tithing in our megachurches and our shopping centers, devil's advocacy, lip service, fuzzy feelings, and passivity will make us well. We stand motionless in the way and we are so passionate, so vocal to make sure everyone knows we're better than those ones who are throwing down black people and killing them, that we're not the bad ones. We wrap MLK's dream speech around us like a t-shirt, to conspicuously consume civil rights as though it were a part of our lives and important to us like our favorite sports, games, celebs, or electronic peripherals.
It's a lie. Black Lives Matter. But not to us.
