Silenced By Perception and End Up Dead

Panting By: Beverly McIver

One evening my brother who is frequently, though unintentionally, the bearer of bad news came heavy footed in the house. He said, "Cindy..." I knew it was bad news because he has this specific way of saying my name when something is wrong. His voice echoes despair and whispers angst. The sound of his voice that night reminded me of the time that he bore the news that our father had died. 18 years later that echo has never subsided. I knew immediately what my brother would say next. 

My brother and I are both so very different. He is very forthcoming with his sentiments in many situations. I on the other hand try my hardest to bury sentiments that require the expansion of what I consider "extreme" emotion. As a result, my sentiments get backed up and I end up exploding emotionally at very odd times. Anxiety. Looking at how my mother handles emotion I believe we are very similar. But my mother has the gift of control, very Claire Huxtable-Beth Pearson-esq. I should insert "but I digress" here but l'm just going to keep it pushing.

I admire my brother for being able to be openly emotional but as he began to bring the news all I could think was please don't start crying. "What's going on?" I said in my typical anxious way having already anticipated that something bad had happened. "You know Mariah's cousin the one you met last Thanksgiving? The one with the 3 boys? She died today." My feet started hurting. Which is normal for me in moments of anxiety. The young woman was only 25 years old and leaves to mourn 3 adolescent boys. 3 adolescent Black boys! My brother wasn't sure the exact cause of death but her story is similar to many Black women who go in to the doctor with concerns about something and the maltreatment leaves them fighting for their lives.

I started writing this blog post to talk about this young woman. To tell her story. I wanted to share how beautiful her boys are whom I affectionately call "my chocolate babies." However, although you are reading this post today, I started writing it earlier last month and couldn't find the words to finish it. I couldn't just and allow this be another R.I.P. "everything gonna be aight" post. 

I can't find the peace in hoping. I don't find that peace in the hope. 

I don't trust that "everything will be aight." 

In fact it is NOT "aight!" 

There are too many fatal stories of Black women due to faux paus medical practices that have left me infuriated and frankly petrified. With every breath taken we, Black women, are fighting even harder to protect ourselves. Ourselves and everyone else. 

Bringing new life into the world. End up dead. 

Go into the doctor with upper respiratory concerns, end up dead. 

Arrested. End up dead. 

This is a crisis! But because we are Black and female we are silenced by perception and end up being a number added to a statistic or a boost for the pharmaceutical agenda. 


The fight is falling on deaf ears and hollow souls.

The term ally and equity all breed blanket statements disguised as empathy.

The harsh reality is that demise is seemingly inevitable.