Karen Hawkins
The difference in the texts I got over the weekend from Black friends and other folks of color versus the ones I got from white friends is a good place to start for why I reached out to this particular group of writers for essays.
Last Friday feels like a year ago. In the e-mail I sent that morning asking for these essays, I put it this way:
As I edited these essays, I cycled through all of the stages of grief. I laughed and cried, felt hopeless and despondent, dug in on my commitment to making Chicago a better city, and fantasized about moving into a custom tricked-out van down by some distant river. We’ve arranged these essays to reflect this emotional journey, and I hope you read this package from start to finish, from Derrick’s palpable anger and delete-button self-care to Terrence’s Buddhist chants as a way to channel the rage we all feel.
Derrick Clifton
I woke up lighter.
I was already exhausted by the week’s news. His message drained me of anything that was left from the little bit of joy I woke up with. But then I decided to reclaim my time and my humanity. I hit “decline” on his message request, rendering the message automatically trashed without Instagram notifying him that I’d interacted with it.
It’s the literal definition of pulling a “Karen” and demanding to speak to the manager. It’s an act of privilege in itself to demand free labor from people whose ancestors were ripped from their homeland and forced to build the nation’s economy on their backs, with no reparations yet to be given to their descendants.
