By: Kiana Jones
Updated: Oct. 15, 2019
Originally Published: Oct. 15, 2019
Every time I learn about another Black woman falling victim to police violence, I find myself engulfed in an overwhelming numbness. It’s not that I lack empathy; it’s that each incident feels like a personal assault on my existence. The fact that my sisters are often reduced to mere hashtags is a heartbreaking reality that weighs heavily on my soul. The recent case of Tamara Williams, who was shot in her own home, underscores this trauma. Tamara was simply playing video games late at night with her young nephew when a police officer, conducting a welfare check, fired into her bedroom without even identifying himself.
After receiving a call from a concerned neighbor who noticed her front door ajar, the officer acted with alarming swiftness. He arrived, saw movement inside, and made the split-second decision to fire through the window—less than half a minute after demanding that she raise her hands. In that instant, Tamara’s life was extinguished.
Though the officer was arrested and charged shortly after, it fails to change the grim reality of Tamara’s loss. As a single Black mother living alone with my son, I often find myself awake late at night working or unwinding with music. The thought that someone could burst into my home, mistaking me for a threat, is a chilling possibility.
Tamara’s murder brings to mind the case of Derek Lee, who was shot in his apartment by a police officer who claimed she mistook his home for her own. Instead of de-escalating the situation, her immediate reaction was to pull the trigger. These examples drive home a stark truth: Black individuals are not safe in their own homes, and often, we cannot rely on those sworn to protect us.
In my apartment building, I’ve grown accustomed to keeping to myself. While I exchange polite nods with neighbors, I remain cautious. The noise from the residents above me can be disruptive, especially late at night when I’m trying to work or when my son is asleep. While it might be tempting to involve the police, I refrain. My family’s safety takes priority, and I recognize that my call could lead to dangerous outcomes.
As a Black woman, I am acutely aware of the potential for violence—even if I’m the one reaching out for help. The very act of dialing 911 could put my life at risk. The fear that accompanies this realization is palpable, yet I refuse to let paranoia paralyze me. The consistent violence inflicted upon our community leaves little room for trust in law enforcement.
Tamara Williams was simply enjoying time with her nephew in the one place she should have felt safe: her home. All the police saw was the color of her skin, leading them to make fatal assumptions. This tragic reality is a painful reminder that systemic change is desperately needed, but I remain skeptical that Tamara’s death will spark the necessary reforms.
The haunting thought of my son witnessing my death at the hands of a police officer is a fear that shadows my every day. If a moment of misunderstanding could lead to such catastrophic consequences, how can I ensure my family’s safety?
While I may not be the praying type, I find myself wishing daily to avoid becoming just another hashtag. The circumstances surrounding Tamara’s death reveal the deep-seated fears that Black women live with daily. The threat of violence looms even in the comfort of our homes.
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In summary, the tragic stories of Black women like Tamara Williams serve as a stark reminder of the dangers we face daily. As we push for change, we must acknowledge the fears that accompany our reality while seeking support and understanding.
Keyphrase: Black women and police violence
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