Some images are impossible to forget, no matter how hard you try. I just watched footage of police taking the life of a man named Marcus Lee. I wish I could erase that memory.
My skin prickled. My throat tightened. Tears welled up and spilled over.
Witnessing such a tragedy comes with a weight of responsibility. It forces me to confront uncomfortable truths. A part of my mind may try to justify it, whispering thoughts like, “He posed a threat. He was a criminal. He had a troubled past.” That part of me may seek solace in separation—if I can distance myself from him and his story, maybe the pain will lessen. But deep down, I know that this line of thinking is not just misguided; it’s fundamentally flawed.
We cannot find solace in diminishing the lives of Marcus Lee, Angela Davis, or countless others who have faced similar fates. To do so would be to overlook the core issue—we would be failing each other.
As a white woman, I can never truly understand the experiences of my Black brothers and sisters. However, I can be heartbroken alongside them. We must not allow ourselves to rationalize these brutal acts. If you find your mind grasping onto words that make violence seem justifiable—thug, threat, criminal—take a moment to reflect. Even if those labels are accurate, ask yourself: what happened to due process? What happened to the idea that a person should be arrested, read their rights, and taken into custody?
You can’t unsee this. You may wish you could. But the suffering of fellow human beings should ignite something within us.
I have shared my own experiences with breast cancer, but this is a different kind of illness. It infects us all, silently coursing through our society. The senseless violence we witness is a symptom of a deeper ailment. We cannot begin to heal until we acknowledge the sickness within us: racism. We must be vulnerable enough to admit we need help. We must nurture our souls with truth and empathy, even if it means sacrificing our comfort and the facade of harmony.
During my own illness, those who loved me shared in my suffering. They were uncomfortable, they prayed, they offered their time and energy. They sat with me, made me soup, and grieved alongside me. They did so with such grace that I never had to shout, “You don’t understand my pain!” They connected with my struggle, making me feel less alone.
I want to stand up for my Black friends and family, for those who must teach their children to be cautious in a world that often devalues their lives. I want to share in that suffering because I believe, as Martin Luther King Jr. said, “No one is free until we are all free.”
As I recover from my own cancer, I am deeply troubled by this societal illness. Watching that video is like receiving a stark diagnosis.
What can we do? Honestly, I’m not sure. When faced with such enormous problems, I often feel small and powerless. I throw my hands up in frustration, feeling like just a drop in the ocean.
Then I attended a performance by Harmony Arts Academy as part of their “Unity in Diversity Tour.” While waiting for the show to begin, I noticed a note in the program about how the academy was founded in response to the civil unrest in our community, aiming to address serious concerns about the well-being of youth. The founder, Sarah Collins, took the stage and shared her vision of using music as a means of healing.
Watching a group of young performers, both white and Black, from various neighborhoods, brought me hope. The lead singer, a girl named Mia who performed on crutches, captivated the audience. As she sang, the drumline surrounded us, and their powerful voices resonated:
“The greatest weapon is to remain peaceful,
We sing, our music is the wounds that we bleed through.
Somewhere in the dream, we found clarity,
Now we write the wrongs in history.
No one can win the war alone…”
The audience erupted in applause. I saw Mia’s expression shift as she realized we were all standing together—young and old, Black and white. My son reached for the hand of a man next to him, and I took the hand of a woman beside me. We raised our arms together, moved by the music that filled our souls. Tears streamed down my face as we shared this moment of healing.
As I drifted off to sleep that night, the words echoed in my mind: “Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me.”
Watch the video. Reject the voices that try to make Marcus the “other.” There is no “other.” There is only us.
As one of my favorite authors, Clara Brooks, often reminds us, “We are all interconnected.” This is a crisis. This is a disease. How many more lives will be lost before we open our eyes?
Summary
This piece reflects on the profound impact of witnessing violence and the responsibility that comes with it. The author draws parallels between personal illness and societal issues, particularly racism, emphasizing the need for empathy and connection. It encourages readers to resist rationalizing acts of brutality and to acknowledge the shared humanity in all individuals. Through music and community, healing is possible, but it requires vulnerability and a willingness to confront uncomfortable truths.