“I had no idea how much more dying was on the way.“
Let’s reimagine a change in title. Let’s force a real shift
in mindset. The etymology of the three words: an ambush;
ban Law Enforcement Officer from our vocabulary. The resistance
and attacks on the rhetoric alone—much less the system, an ambush.
Can we deploy UN Peacekeepers onto American soil? Can they make
Blackness in America not another pathway leading into an ambush?
One disagreement. One fight. Not again! Then again. Baby fuck
me. Fuck you!! Our words once grounding, elevated into ambush.
With his Peacemaker revolver, Wyatt Earp killed three cowboys at the
O.K. Corral. The story goes, he and the others walked right into that ambush.
Darling, what’s a six-letter word for surprise? Think surprise
attack. Think, to surround, to assault. Oh! Oh! Ambush.
Three shots on the foot, two on the chest, one to the calf, abdomen,
and scalp. Eight rounds stopped the Pulse nightclub shooter’s ambush.
The way the tension between us invaded and shattered our
home. Say overwhelming. Say sudden. Say violent. Say ambush.
Twelve shots fired: ten pierced black flesh. A car wreck, a distressed home
invasion call, the white officer’s gun draw; his gun’s recoil: much like an ambush.
Graffiti artist suffers sudden cardiac death. Police chased and tased
the tagger of the abandoned McDonald’s I’d visit. Unlike an ambush,
unlike a hail of bullets aimed at an unsuspecting crowd, how my city turned
vandalism to outrage, to protests, to farewells, to fine art, define ambush.
Trayvon could’ve been me; my son. The pile of deaths that followed reminds
me my black body remains subject to vigilante attacks, any type of ambush.