Yearwood: A year after George Floyd’s death, the dam has not yet burst

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As the anniversary of George Floyd’s death is being marked this week, my emotions have run the gamut from anger and suspicion to sadness and anxiety.

It took some long walks and a lot of soul-searching to crack the code of my complex emotional reaction. Of course, the violence of his death — nine painful minutes on never-ending rewind at the recent trial of disgraced police officer Derek Chauvin — naturally create upset and dismay.

But I am more troubled by what the anniversary may auger.

Yes, a guilty verdict is a signpost that minds are changing. It is a crack in the foundations of systemic racism that underpin the functioning of our society. But a crack isn’t the same as a dam bursting, and that is the sea-change we need — as African, Caribbean and Black (ACB) people — if we truly want to breathe freely.

I still hold my breath a lot these days. I worry that for many, “guilty” is synonymous with closure. For some, it will signal a getting on with things. An excuse to ease off the pedal, as the spotlight inevitably shifts to the next crisis, the next cause célèbre.

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As a Black woman, I can assure you that even as our collective attention may drift elsewhere, I don’t have the luxury of stepping back from my reality — of taking a break from the challenges that come with the colour of my skin.

When my son walks home at night, I hold my breath. I am an accomplished, professional woman — but still, when I see police, my chest tightens, and my breathing shortens. It is reflex born from generations of fear.

My white friends may wish to hear differently, but the fact is, racism is alive and well. And the worst part: it isn’t always a blatant beast, easy to spot, simple to slay. Often, it’s an insidious worm, wending it’s way into daily interactions: off-hand comments, thoughtless assumptions, daily digs, micro-aggressions.

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Add to this toxic mix an onslaught of violence caught on camera, posted to Instagram, splashed across the nightly news. Some days, I feel like a pressure cooker set to boil. Others, I’m depleted by the exhaustion that comes with constantly swimming against the tide — proving myself, affirming my worth, fitting in.

In our hurry to embrace diversity, and celebrate our differences, we cannot outrun the reality of racism. Diversity isn’t a shiny object to pursue, it’s a lesson in humility that requires confronting uncomfortable truths.

My biggest fear, right now, is the threat of silence.

The desire to pretend that somehow George Floyd’s experience was different and apart from the experiences of Black people the world over and right here at home. I could write a book on the flaws in our justice system that leave a disproportionate number of black people in jail. Nor do our experiences in the school system, health system and career market spell equality.

Even in Canada, being Black means holding your breath, and hoping, against hope, to hear the rush of a dam bursting.

But right now, the only rushing in my ears is the resounding silence of people who want it all to just go away. In this case, silence isn’t golden. It’s white and privileged.

It’s the kind of silence that needs to be broken.

Debra Yearwood is a communications professional and Director of Public Affairs at the Mental Health Commission of Canada.