I watch the protests against police brutality, triggered by the death of one man, and the painting of the streets in D.C. to say “Black Lives Matter”, slightly bemused. And heartbroken.

I have stood, alone, in every kind of weather, hungry and tired, protesting the murder of black people. Christians and nonChristians alike have ignored me. People driving by yelled swear words or gave a less vocal, but as eloquent, gesture. I have talked to dozens of college students and high school students, the ones who are now at protests playing at being woke, and urged them to open their eyes to the slaughter around them. Back then they only laughed. I have spoken to members of an Ethiopian church to ask for their help. They were too busy, they told me.

It is your race who is being murdered, but their murder benefits you, in a way, so you stayed silent. You are targeted, purposefully, soundlessly, the murderers stalking your neighborhood, and the ones killed can’t even say, “I can’t breathe.” They don’t get a chance to.

If your protests were invested with the holy anger you pretend to have, every single Planned Parenthood in this nation would be up in flames.

If you truly believed that black lives matter, you would not murder your own children nor would you, like a coward, leave the women you impregnated.

If you truly believed murder was wrong, maybe you should stop killing each other. Is it only wrong when another race does it?

Your children are your future.