Yes, I’m mad about the Breonna Taylor case, but I’m taking my anger to the voting booth

When I learned that only one police officer was charged in the police raid that led to Breonna Taylor’s death — and the two officers who shot her six times were not charged — a moment of fear tried to overtake me.

I said “tried” to overtake me because, as a Christian, I believe the Bible when it tells me that God didn’t give me the spirit of fear… and that He will give His angels charge over me. I repeat those Scriptures to myself every day, and try hard to live a fearless, spiritual life.

However, today, even if it was for just a fleeting moment, I felt the cold hands of fear that nearly every Black in America must have felt, when we learned that a grand jury on Wednesday handed down no charges against the two officers who shot Taylor, a 26-year-old emergency room technician, six times shortly after midnight March 13 in her own Louisville apartment.

One of the two Louisville police officers, Det. Myles Cosgrove, fired the shot that killed Taylor, according to news reports of an FBI crime lab analysis.

The person who was indicted, Brett Hankison, a detective at the time, was simply charged with three counts of “wanton endangerment” for shooting into a neighboring apartment, where a pregnant woman, her husband and their 5-year-old child slept. The three were not injured.

For those people who don‘t understand the Black Lives Matter movement, Breonna’s story should explain it to you. Her story tells the world why Black lives should matter.

Even so, it seems that to Kentucky Attorney General Daniel Cameron, who is Black, and the grand jury, Breonna’s life had no value at all. (Cameron has said the grand jury found the police had knocked and announced themselves before shooting, although neighbors dispute that.)

Oh, yes, I know her family was awarded a $12 million settlement in a civil suit. But the money won’t bring back Breonna.

Even charging the officers with her murder won‘t bring her back. But finding them guilty of murder would have sent the right message: Breonna’s life really does matter. All life matters. Black lives matter.

When I mentioned the fear that crept into my soul, I have good reason to have such a feeling. I am a Black, 82-year-old woman who lives in Miami Gardens.

On any given evening, I can hear gunshots. Sometimes the sound is at a distance. But too many times the sound is so close, it seems like someone is standing in my front yard firing a gun.

So, I ask, what is there to keep police officers from bursting in my front door, shooting first, and asking questions later? Police officers have been known to make mistakes before, shooting their way into a house because they think they are at the home of some gangster or fugitive from the law.

Would my screams save me? Would I have enough time to ask, “What’s happening?” before being blown into eternity by the officers’ guns. Oops. Sorry. Too late. Oh, well, just another Black person gone.

If I sound angry, I am.

I, and too many other Blacks, have lived with the consequences of the injustice that killed Breonna for way too long.

I was born in America. My parents and their parents were born here, and some of my family members were brought here as slaves.

Yet, we learned to love the land. We even loved the people who enslaved us.

I have often thought of the lynch mob and the men who were so eager to hang an innocent black man or woman. And I wondered: How many of them nursed at the breast of a Black woman? How many of them were lulled to sleep to the soothing humming of a Black mother, who had babies of her own, but was ordered to care for the white baby first?

Yet, we held onto our hope and faith. One of the reasons that I, and many other Blacks, have survived is because of the hope that is embedded deep inside our hearts. The hopes and dreams that these acts of injustices against my people would one day pass — during my lifetime.

Now, I am not so sure. Maybe justice for Blacks and people of color won’t happen until I have gone home to be with the Lord — and maybe not even then.

So, I am angry. But I am also sad. I am sad that although this is September 2020 and I am free to write this column for a major newspaper (for which I am thankful), and I no longer have to drink from water fountains with signs over them that say “White,” and can ride in the first-class section on an airplane, if I have the fare, I can still feel the bruises from the shackles of slavery.

I can still hear the cries of the 1940s and 1950s in the deep South, where a mother wails for her son, stolen away in the middle of the night by a lynching party. I remember Emmett Till.

On Wednesday morning, such memories came rushing back to me, flung into my face.

But while I am hurting now, I believe this is no time to give up.

We can change things. We must change the way business is done in America against Blacks and other minorities. We can do this by using one of our greatest freedoms: Our right to vote.

I have entertained my anger long enough. I will not let it take root in my soul. I will keep the faith. We can change things.

Let’s do it. Let’s vote.

This story was originally published September 24, 2020 at 5:48 PM.