Hopeful yet still afraid to hope: The legacy of George Floyd

In the wake of George Floyd's murder, uprisings ignited in cities throughout the United States and the world. Despite potential risks of exposure to COVID-19, demonstrators laid bare the deep pain that persists for Black people fighting to live under the crushing weight of injustice that has long been at our necks.

The words "I can't breathe" have hung heavy in the air for the past year—both a rallying cry and an indictment.

As a Black Minnesotan, as a Black mother and as a Black academic who studies the role that racism and white supremacy have played in eroding the health of Black communities, I figuratively held my breath for 28,634,421 seconds—the time from George Floyd's murder just eight blocks from my childhood home to the moment the verdict was announced on April 20 at 4 p.m.

I held my breath because even with the footage, even with the clear evidence of Floyd's murder under the knee of Derek Chauvin, I was afraid to hope. To have hope is to have privilege. A privilege Black people in America are not afforded.

To be Black in America means that justice is rarely, if ever, served. Blame, judgment and indifference are the default response to our pain and suffering.

Now, one full year later, I find myself hopeful yet still afraid to hope. Here is why:

Since Floyd's murder on May 25, 2020, at least 966 people also lost their lives due to police violence and at least 181 of them were Black. Even as I sat in my Minneapolis home, feeling hopeful as Chauvin was pronounced guilty on all counts, Ma'Khia Bryant, a 16-year-old Black girl, was shot and killed by a Columbus, Ohio, police officer, leaving me afraid to hope.

The truth is, Black people are afraid to hope because as we continued to mourn Floyd while reliving the trauma of the trial for his murder, Daunte Wright, another beloved Black son, was killed at the hands of police in our community.

Racism lands, violently, on bodies — not as a function of race but as a function of how humans order society, assign power and distribute resources, wrote Dr. Rhea Boyd in The Lancet in 2018. Chauvin's knee on Floyd's neck represents the weathering deep in Black bodies, the lifetime of watching our brothers and sisters, our beloved sons and daughters killed by police.

Black people are aging biologically more rapidly than whites. This more rapid aging and physiological deterioration reflects the accumulation of all the negative, stressful exposures in the physical, chemical and psychosocial environment due to racism.

And what of the mamas, those wanting to simply protect their babies in utero and in arms. They tell me they fear finding out they are having a boy. For to raise a Black son in America means to constantly be worried that the child will be seen as too threatening or too aggressive, like 12-year-old Tamir Rice killed by a Cleveland, Ohio, police officer.

Black mamas are holding their daughters closer because we know Black girls will be presumed to be older, less innocent and less in need of protection than white girls as early as 5 years old. As Black parents we know the risks our children may face when they leave our sides, and we hide our silent devastation when we prepare them for those risks — risks that no amount of guidance may deter.

We are afraid to hope.

What we do now is most critical. We cannot rest easy with a guilty conviction; we must keep going even if we are hopeful yet afraid to hope. My hope for the years to come is that we focus on manifesting racial justice through a public safety system that upholds the health, safety and dignity of Black communities.

To get there we must rely on data and research to inform policy. Research that shows public safety goes beyond policing. Policy that protects our communities and holds individuals perpetrating violence accountable.

We must be brave to do the things that have not been tried in the past, like centering public safety on prevention, de-escalation and well-being, and not just enforcement. We must be bold to live up to our belief that this state and country truly represents the land of the free where we govern democratically and that we are judged by who we are and not what we appear to be.

And then we can be truly hopeful that our Black community has an opportunity to exist without the menace of extrajudicial killings of our Black sons and daughters.

Rachel Hardeman is Blue Cross Endowed Professor of Health and Racial Equity, and founding director, Center for Antiracism Research for Health Equity, University of Minnesota School of Public Health.