July 11, 2020
My Weapon
When I embarked on this journey of sharing my deepest innermost thoughts from my journal entries, I began by introducing myself as a wife, mother, and Black. Now I chose to share another aspect of who I am and why I write.
I am a wife, a mother, a Black mother, but the roots of this Black mother travel deep beyond my layer of Black skin. My roots are what make me who and what I am today.
Examining one leg of my roots, I realize I am a product of the 1960s. I am a flower child — free to be me. Enjoying life and exploring the beauty surrounding me. I am also the light-bright Black Panther armed and dangerous, ready to take on the world, and all it throws my way. Always packing and not afraid to pull my weapon out and use it. Locked and loaded and willing to unload my artillery on anyone who gets in my way.
Situations and circumstances of today have led me to pull out my best weapons, and I’ve begun to use them a lot more frequently. My anger has brimmed to the point my hands were shaking out of control, causing me to put down one weapon and pick up another.
As I watched the video footage of Ahmaud Arbery being chased and slaughtered like a wild animal, it ignited an inferno in me. Ahmaud was 25, a year older than my son. It could have easily been him. So I was and still am mad as HELL! Like his killers, I picked up my weapon — ready to retaliate — to do damage — to take someone down for the senseless — unwarranted murder of another young Black man. Yes, I picked up numerous weapons. I needed to get my point across — to make sure others knew my level of anger, pain, frustration, sympathy, and empathy. I needed as many people as possible to know what I felt and still feel, so yes, I picked up multiple weapons. When I emptied one, I picked up another. If that one did not accomplish my goal, I switched to another one and another one. I am licensed to carry, and I take full responsibility and advantage of my right. I am the owner of hundreds of weapons, some bigger and much more dangerous than others. It depends on my mood and my target as to which piece of artillery I select. One thing for sure, I will not run out of ammunition.
The difference between the killers of Ahmaud, George, Breona, Sandra, and so many others and me is my weapon affords everyone the freedom to live. My thoughts, feelings, emotions, ideas, and tongue are my ammunition. I have trays and containers of weapons in various colors, shapes, and sizes to suit my taste. When I empty one weapon, I immediately pick up another. My PEN is my weapon!
BB Davis
