I’ve always loved black men. The way they walk, their style, the culture they represent, and the beauty reflected through their different hues of brown. I’ve always believed in them. I believe they are more intellectual and creative than society wants to portray them as. I believe their potential for success far outweighs the presumption that they are "dangerous" or "deadbeats."

Today, I fear for these men whom I’ve always loved so much.

I’ve always had a hard time connecting with the ancestry of African-Americans because I am a Nigerian girl with Nigerian parents, raised in a Nigerian household complete with Pigeon English, fufu, and Naija movies. However, being born and raised in the United States allows me to connect to the experiences that African-Americans have had in this country.

Growing up in a predominately white neighborhood afforded me the opportunity to experience racism for myself. Those older white men and women could care less about my Nigerian heritage or the fact that my ancestors and parents didn’t grow up in this country. In their eyes, my two brothers and I were just another set of black kids in their neighborhood; another set of black kids that they preferred would disappear from their well-manicured country club.

At 25, I’m married to a black man and—God willing—will have a black son of my own one day. And at 25, in 2015, I fear for my black men every day.

I’ve gotten so weary that I won’t even allow my husband to drive to work if he's left his wallet at a friend's house. I’d rather wake up with him at 6:30am and drop him off—just so I know there is no reason for a police officer to see him as anything but a compliant and upstanding citizen.

I remember the day I saw the press conference in Ferguson after the death of Michael Brown. I wept. I wept because I knew then this country did not love my black men as I do. I wept because my brothers, cousins, and husband were in danger of being stereotyped, harassed, and even killed because of the color of their skin.

And now, after meditating on the deaths of Walter Scott and Eric Harris, I have to ask myself: Who has the answer? Who are we supposed to be looking to for help? Who is going to help our black men escape an undeserving and tragic fate?

From what I’ve seen growing up in this country, the black woman has played a significant role in protecting her black man. She has fought verbally and physically for him. She has worked ungodly hours to make sure he attends the best schools. She has placed strict rules on him in order to keep him safe from gang violence, drug dealers, and everything else that threatens his ability to survive and thrive. She has prayed for him while he was away, asking God to help him make it home just one more time.

I am a black woman, wanting so badly to protect my black men from harm… but I am finding myself at a loss for solutions. What can we do? As a community, a people, and a nation—what can we do?

Police officers aren’t the only ones killing our black men. They are also killing each other. They are also killing themselves. While I recognize there is a larger problem that goes beyond law enforcement and judicial rulings, I can’t refrain from expressing a frustration with our government system.

Yes, black men are killing each other. Yes, black men are killing themselves. But if we can’t rely on the structure that has been put in place to keep our nation safe—the system that is supposed to protect us and keep our loved ones alive—then who are we supposed to turn to for safety?

The day I wake up and fear my husband may be killed by a police officer because he made a wrong turn or frightened an officer as he reached for his wallet, is the day our system has failed us. And it’s such a real fear. It’s not superficial, nor is it dramatic. The fear I have for my black men is one that cripples and burdens me at night. We can keep them out of gang-infested areas. We can keep drugs from their hands. We can even teach them to be safer as they drive.

But how do we teach them to survive the white supremacy and systemic racism built to “maintain order” in our country?

I’ve always loved black men. I’ve always believed in them. I will continue to have faith that they can be who they were created to be, despite the stereotypes and criminalization of them that the media continues to portray.

I’ve witnessed and interacted with a strong group of individuals who are seeking to make a difference in our society. They have the vigor, drive and willingness to make a change, but I’m still unsure they even know what methods to use. I know that as an individual, I can only do so much. I can only protect my black men to an extent. I have become so burdened by this fear that it has moved me out of my silence.

So again, I ask, I plead: Who has the answer? - Ifie Natasha Brandon

Photo: Shutterstock

Ifie Natasha Brandon is a 25-year-old with a passion for writing, women, and truth. Through obtaining her bachelor’s degree in non-profit administration, she discovered her love for rebuilding communities. She is a wife and a soon-to-be mommy of a baby girl.

Please stop sharing videos and photos of dead Black bodies.

It is making us sick, triggering anxiety attacks, sending us into depression, and causing us to question the point of it all.

Last week, 148 students were killed in Nairobi, Kenya. Rather than reflecting on their lives, I saw people share a triggering photo of their lifeless bodies on the floor of a courtyard at their university. I was sick, but I couldn’t escape the image.

This week, a video was released of Walter Scott being brutally shot eight times in the back (in broad daylight) as he ran away from white police officer Michael Slager in North Charleston, South Carolina. How do I know the particulars of this story? Because people insisted on sharing the actual video that was used to charge Slager with murder across social media. As much as I tried to turn away, Facebook’s auto-start function meant I could not control when or how the video is displayed. So on the night the video went viral, I turned off my phone and slept for 10 hours.

I had to check out because I am not a “Strong Black Woman.” I bleed. I cry. I hurt. I am reminded of the timeless words of Joan Morgan in her classic, When Chickenheads Come Home to Roost:

The original ‘STRONGBLACKWOMAN’ and her alleged ‘super strength’ was a myth created by whites to rationalize their brutality.

There is no rational explanation for police brutality. There is also no rational reason for bombarding people with images that might send them into dangerous mental spaces. I have asked friends on my social media pages to stop sharing these violent photos and videos.

Yes, we have a right to film the police. The way power is set up, the oppressed need tangible evidence of their own oppression… right? This is why we ask rape survivors to “prove” their assaults. This is why we ask the poor to “prove” their poverty. This is why we ask the undocumented to “prove” their worthiness for citizenship.

That’s the problem.

I’m waiting for the people who police my bikini photos and turn-up videos to also say something against the sharing of violent images. This is perhaps the one time the logic behind “everything doesn’t need to be posted for the world to see” is fair. The choice to post videos of brutal killings and beatings is an infringement upon my health and the health of many others.

Black women know the stakes, but people keep insisting we stick our fingers in Jesus’ wounds to be convinced he was actually crucified. Even after I tell people it makes me sick, they insist we need to keep sharing these videos. They argue that we need to remind this loosely-defined “them” of how sick it is. I keep hearing the infantilizing refrain: “If we don’t share these photos, then they won’t believe us.”

I am consistently taken on a guilt trip by the most aggressive sharers about watching things that hurt me, staying in places that are toxic, and proving that I’m “down” or “woke” enough for the movement. I can’t do that anymore.

I demand rest. I demand humanity. Exhaustion, exasperation, and trauma are human experiences. Let me have them.

As a sister, daughter, teacher, friend, activist, student, writer, babysitter, and tutor, I have to voice that my neck is being stepped on. I simply cannot hold the pain and trauma of everyone.

When we ask you not to share these graphic videos, take us seriously. We are not asking you to stop sharing because we are weak. We are not asking you to stop sharing because we want to pretend that the world is all sunshine and rainbows. In fact, if anyone knows that life in this world is hard for Black folks, it is Black women.

It makes me wonder what the Clark Sisters were really getting at when they sang, “Is my labor in vain?” When the statistics suggest that every 28 hours a Black person is killed by state violence, I wonder about both meanings of the word “labor.”

Firstly, is our work towards the cause of justice in vain? All the conference calls, the signs, the protests, the demonstrations, the die-ins, the late night organizing, the sleepless nights, the stress, the requests for extensions, the meetings—are these all in vain? Is the work for nothing?

I refuse to believe so.

But as Black women, there’s a larger question about “labor”: Is our childbirth in vain? Is our bringing children into this world in vain? Is it for nothing? I don’t have children, so I don’t pretend to understand the pain Black mothers experience. I will say that my experience in justice work has made me seriously reconsider my once solid plans of bringing children into this world. Is the labor for nothing?

I refuse to believe so. It can’t be.

The trauma will hit all of us in different ways, I understand. But your sisters need you to stop sharing videos and photos in which lifeless Black bodies are displayed without concern for how we might be seeing them. Because there are some of us who just cannot bear to ask the question any more:

Is my living in vain? - Candace Simpson

Photo: Shutterstock

Candace Simpson is a Brooklyn native and a seminary student. You can follow her tweets at @CandyCornball.