Tiffanie Drayton | Vox Our world has too much noise and too little context. Vox helps you understand what matters. 2021-07-23T10:55:23+00:00 https://www.vox.com/authors/tiffanie-drayton/rss https://platform.vox.com/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/08/vox_logo_rss_light_mode.png?w=150&h=100&crop=1 Tiffanie Drayton <![CDATA[“I can’t tell you how relieved I was”]]> https://www.vox.com/first-person/22585804/child-tax-credit-parents-spend-money 2021-07-23T06:55:23-04:00 2021-07-21T10:00:00-04:00

On July 15, millions of working-class parents across America woke up to a welcome surprise: hundreds of dollars directly deposited into their bank accounts with the label “CHILDCTC.” The first payment of the anticipated expanded child tax credit, passed as part of Biden’s $1.9 trillion Covid-19 relief package, had arrived for eligible families with children under 18. 

Parents were granted the option to receive half of the annual tax credit in six monthly payments of up to $300 for each child under 6 years old, and $250 for children ages 6 to 17; the other half of the credit will be awarded in 2022. Eligibility is based on income and filing status — married filers, for example, must have an adjusted gross income of less than $150,000 a year in order to receive the full credit, which phases out gradually with higher incomes.

The money comes as Americans are still reeling from the devastating emotional and economic impact of the pandemic. But the financial impact of raising kids was a problem long before last year — in the US, almost one in five children lives in poverty. Parents, on average, spend a little over $750 per child per month on child care and about $722 on groceries for a family of three. And in 2021, rental prices have jumped 9.2 percent, bringing the national average monthly cost for one- and two-bedroom apartments upward of $1,700 and $1,900 respectively, according to real estate reports.

Low-income families have borne the brunt, especially as school closures have forced parents to forgo income to care for their children. For many of these families, the monthly benefit is a much-needed relief and a lifeline after a year of hardship. “Getting these payments now, I know that at least I have help covering food,” said David Watson, a technician and single parent of two. “Now I can pull back on overtime. I need sleep, man.”

Vox talked to three parents about how, after struggling financially in the pandemic, they believe these payments will enhance their lives. Our conversations have been edited and condensed for clarity.

“I can’t tell you how relieved I was”

David Watson, technician, father of two, New Jersey

My shoulders already feel lighter. 

I am a single parent with two children — my son Suleemon, 11, and my daughter Haleemah, 17. Their mother has battled substance abuse and doesn’t provide for them financially. Money is always tight for us since rent and cost of living here is really high. 

Before the pandemic, things were hard, but Covid made everything more uncertain and brought a lot of challenges. Between monitoring my kids’ online schooling and juggling my job, I felt like I was going to lose my mind. I can’t imagine how parents with younger kids do it. 

Usually, I would do overtime to make up for rent and any unexpected costs, but with Covid, it was impossible to keep up with the regular workweek, making overtime impossible. Then my job announced that staff would be furloughed through the summer. They told us to put in unemployment claims to help keep us paid. Around then, unemployment benefits also came with the extra $600. I was excited to finally catch a break — but it never happened. My unemployment claim was denied because someone tried to open a fraudulent claim, which locked my Social Security number. I called every number and visited every unemployment and Social Security office, but everything is still not running back to normal, so I can’t get help. We relied on pantries and I took a loan from my pension to get us through. The struggle was real!

Then my son broke both of his arms in a freak skating accident. At one point, I couldn’t work, to help him do everything. I’m proud to say, this June, my daughter graduated high school. But between graduation costs and college applications, more money was needed.

When I heard of the child tax credit, I was hopeful, but after the year I had, I didn’t want to get my hopes up too high. Then, on July 15, I was on my last $60 and wondering how to make it stretch for two weeks when I got a text message saying I got a deposit of $500 into my account. The child tax credit came through. I can’t tell you how relieved I was.

Part of me wishes it was more, but I don’t want to sound ungrateful, and … it’s something. People I know never received it or didn’t get the right amount. I know I can opt out and receive this money next year, but, for us, that is not an option. Getting these payments now, I know that at least I have help covering food. I can pull back on overtime. I need sleep, man.

“My goal right now is building generational wealth”

Shakisha Harvell, entrepreneur, mother of two, Virginia

The father of my two children — Shakisha, 9, and Shaquan, 12 — and I separated a few years ago, and since then he has not been a consistent provider. We moved to Virginia from New York City not too long before Covid hit to find more affordable housing and to get a better standard of living. In Virginia, we settled in well. The kids went to better schools and I started my own business. I opened my own store selling clothing, jewelry, and home goods. Things were looking up.

In the summer of 2020, we shut down due to Covid restrictions and my income all but dried up. When we reopened, it just wasn’t the same. My usual clients found it a hassle to shop, especially with the then 10-person maximum restriction that was in effect. 

Making it worse, my kids were now doing schooling online. If it wasn’t technical difficulties, it was battling teacher issues. When I tried working during school hours, I would get messages from teachers about the kids not attending or handing in assignments. My daughter and her teacher seemed to be always butting heads. And my son was getting withdrawn from a lack of social interaction. They seemed to be lagging further behind so I altered my work hours. Time I would usually spend on my business was now spent sitting through classes with my kids.

Eventually, I applied for unemployment and started receiving payments. We were now living on half of my usual income. My kids even got involved and started baking and selling cakes to help make up some money.

The extra $500 will help keep us stable — it’s not the generational wealth-building that politicians keep talking about, but it’s better than nothing. My goal right now is building generational wealth. Most of my family grew up in the projects, and I don’t want my kids stuck there. Black people in America never really get a chance to grow. 

My kids have outgrown their clothes and need a new summer wardrobe, so I’m going to use some money for that. But at some point, I want to use part of it to encourage my children’s entrepreneurial spirit. I want them to learn, from a young age, everything about business. I’m thinking of a popcorn and icee machine to get them started. It can go well with their cake business. 

“We will finally be able to afford some help again”

Melissa Petro, freelance writer, mother of two, New York

Before the pandemic started, I was scrambling to juggle motherhood and my work. I had two kids under 2 and it was hard. We couldn’t afford to hire anyone to watch them so I could work, but we needed the income. For a while, I would try to get assignments done during their naptime or after my husband got home from work. It was exhausting. Eventually, my son went to day care for six months. Then Covid began. 

When day cares closed, working became impossible. Fortunately, I went on employment assistance, which was amazing. I finally didn’t have to kill myself with different jobs. I could just watch my kids and get paid for it. But we still couldn’t afford to get a nanny. We just hired young people to help watch them here and there. So that meant my career was really suffering. 

With the extra money from the child tax credit, we will finally be able to afford some help again. Now, instead of hiring kids who don’t really need the work, we can pay an adequate wage and hire someone who is reliable. We are still unable to afford full-time care, which would cost about $4,000/month for two kids, but we are searching for a part-time nanny and I’m grateful to be able to afford any help at all. The money from the credit isn’t life-changing — because everything in New York is so expensive — but it puts a dent in the child care bill.

]]> Tiffanie Drayton <![CDATA[I could have been Ma’Khia Bryant]]> https://www.vox.com/first-person/2021/4/22/22397731/makhia-bryant-police-shooting-black-lives-matter 2021-04-23T10:20:41-04:00 2021-04-22T13:10:00-04:00
An activist holds a placard protesting the police killing of Ma’Khia Bryant, 16, during a demonstration on April 21 in Columbus, Ohio. | Stephen Zenner/SOPA Images/LightRocket via Getty Images

I held my breath for weeks awaiting the verdict in the Derek Chauvin murder trial. The moment the conviction came in, I exhaled and was overcome with relief. Finally, a police officer was going to be held accountable for killing a Black person in America.

But it was only a few minutes afterward that a headline sent my world spinning into disarray again. Police had shot and killed 16-year-old Ma’Khia Bryant at her home. According to her mother, Ma’Khia had called the police herself for an attempted stabbing, but when the officers arrived on the scene, Ma’Khia was brandishing a knife and they opened fire, striking her four times. She died shortly after.

The morning after Ma’Khia’s death, I could barely get out of bed. The heavy, haunted feeling had returned. And with it, a single thought: I’d been in Ma’Khia’s position before, dealing with violence in my own home, and I could’ve easily wound up just like her.

Already, people are viewing the body camera video of the teen wielding a knife and using it to rationalize or justify the police’s deadly use of force against Bryant. Yet police treated Kyle Rittenhouse, a white teenager carrying a far deadlier weapon openly in the streets after killing two people, with kid gloves, not arresting him and even giving him a water bottle. For such people, only the “perfect” victim is worthy of justice, and to them, images of Ma’Khia with a knife prove she deserved to die. 

They don’t understand that the victimization of Black lives begins far before the police ever even get involved. Ma’Khia, like far too many Black teens, was a victim of systemic racism before she ever decided to pick up that knife. She was in foster care at the time of her death, a reality that Black children are far more likely to face than their white counterparts, and kids in foster care are often exposed to high levels of violence. Though it is unclear how she came to be in that predicament, we do know that Black children are more likely to come from impoverished and single-parent households and have family members who were swept into the carceral system. This leads to an increased likelihood that Black children will be exposed to abuse or violence in their adolescence.

When I was a teen, I lived in an underprivileged Black community where violence was the norm — the kind of community created by centuries of oppression, redlining, discrimination, and poverty. By the time I was 12, I had already been jumped by a group of girls two times. I had been in so many fights that I lost count. To avoid confrontation, I chose to walk miles to school alone instead of riding the school bus. I lived my life in constant fear of my peers and my neighborhood. Eventually, that fear turned to anger.

One evening, a group of 20 to 30 teens arrived at my doorstep. News of an impending brawl between me and another girl had spread like wildfire, and they all descended to watch.

I remember the sound of rocks crashing through my windows. I was home alone with my brother, who was only a year my senior, and we were both terrified. My mom, a single parent working multiple jobs to make ends meet, wasn’t home. I darted toward the phone and dialed 911, desperate for help. The dispatcher asked if I saw any weapons, and when I said I wasn’t sure, the call ended ambiguously. The police never came.

I felt helpless as the jeers and screams continued outside. Then I felt something I had never felt before: rage.

I marched toward my kitchen, grabbed a pot, and began to boil water on the stove. In my young mind, the scalding water would simply scare the intruders away, not cause serious burns. As the pot boiled, my eyes fell on a shiny object: the kitchen knife. I grabbed it and felt both terrified and empowered. I thought of the way blood tasted in my mouth when a girl kicked me in the face during an earlier fight.  

“Help me,” I whispered to myself.

There were no adults around to listen.

As I watched the video of Ma’Khia wielding that knife, I could only imagine how she felt in that moment: the mix of anger, fear, and desperation. Though adults appeared to be around, no one stepped in to offer proper guidance or support. The cops were called because Ma’Khia thought there was a single lifeline remaining. And then officers showed up and took her life. 

I am grateful the police never showed up on the day the kids arrived at my doorstep for a fight. As for me, that day did not end without violence. Fortunately, I never went outside with the knife or the pot of boiling water. 

I nearly did, though. Existing so close to that alternate reality — one where my life could have ended in the same way as Ma’Khia Bryant’s — fills me with despair. I am fortunate that I didn’t have to use a knife that day. I am fortunate that the cops never came. I am fortunate that my mom eventually moved from that neighborhood to a safer one. I am fortunate that I was able to narrowly escape the trap of poverty and violence.

But not all Black children are so lucky. Too many are stuck in the vicious cycle of systemic racism, which creates the very conditions that lead to poor outcomes and sometimes even death. Such conditions, coupled with a racist police force that is supposed to help stop crime but often mistreats Black people, only compounds violence. No Black teen should be pushed to the brink of life-threatening violence, especially when adult intervention could end with even more harm by police. 

What we are fighting for when we say “Black Lives Matter” is not just an end to police killing Black people with impunity but an end to the circumstances that result in altercations that lead to violence. Calls to abolish the police are often met with debasement, but they are sensible. Communities of color need more programs that support youth and single mothers, and promote employment, education, and access to safe neighborhoods. The truth is that by the time the police are summoned, many possible interventions were not available that should have been. And far too often, police do not show up to protect and serve in communities of color.

The jury arriving at the guilty verdict for Derek Chauvin’s deadly use of force against George Floyd is a landmark moment for America — but not for the right reasons. Black people should not have to fight for justice. Nor should we be subjected to fighting for our very survival.

Tiffanie Drayton is a mom and a writer. Her memoir Black American Refugee, out in November, details her escape from American systemic racism.

]]> Tiffanie Drayton <![CDATA[“I feel like my ancestry is the story of America”]]> https://www.vox.com/first-person/22299162/ancestry-black-history-month-dna-testing 2021-02-25T10:37:53-05:00 2021-02-24T13:30:00-05:00
The proliferation of DNA testing kits and personal history services has helped many Black Americans connect with family history. | Freeda Michaux/Shutterstock

In a 1969 televised debate about civil rights, James Baldwin was confronted, very rudely, with the question of why Black Americans face a unique struggle in this country. “In the first place, I have to deal with the fact that my history is inaccessible to me,” he says. “My history in this country begins with a bill of sale.”

What Baldwin spoke to is a reality for so many Black Americans. Deeply connecting to that personal history, and understanding where we and our families fit into it, has proven to be challenging or even impossible. Centuries of enslavement, criminalization, and inequality created the conditions where ties to Africa were intentionally severed and records about Black people were seldom kept.  

However, over the past decade, DNA kits and online historical databases have created unique opportunities for Black Americans to reconnect with their familial histories and ancestry. With the help of these burgeoning technologies, many Black Americans have unveiled surprising family histories. They’ve discovered family members they’ve never met and DNA from parts of the world they didn’t know they were tied to — they have been able to connect their Blackness and history in ways they never could have before.

These tests, however, do not come without limitations. For Black, Asian, and Latino people, it is much harder to use these resources to trace ancestry. The more samples a company has from a particular ethnic group or region, the more it learns (and can share) about different groups and their DNA. And since many of these companies’ initial customers were white, it created a big discrepancy between the kind of information a person with ties to Europe could glean from the tests relative to people of color.

But now, with more people from diverse backgrounds ordering kits and taking tests, companies have started to create more diverse and extensive DNA databases, and even more opportunities for people of color to make meaningful discoveries.

Vox talked to three Black Americans who used DNA and ancestry websites to explore their heritage. Here’s what they found on their quest to uncover their family histories. Their remarks have been lightly edited for clarity.

“Now that I have found my family, I get to look at the most beautiful faces of different shades of brown and see a part of me”

Keisha Robinson, 33, Springfield, Illinois 

I was in the foster care system off and on from the age of 3 until I aged out at 21. Growing up, I struggled with my Black identity. Being raised in a mostly white environment felt lonely, like searching for your face in a sea of faces that don’t look or speak like you do. 

In 2011, I was adopted at age 24 by a former foster family. My time in foster care had come to an end and I finally got the “forever” family and security I never really had. But by then, it didn’t feel life-changing because I had already been in the system for so long.

I knew a bit about my biological mom’s side of my family, but after I lost my maternal grandmother and biological mother over an 18-month period when I was 30, I wanted to learn more about them and my ancestry. I took my first test in maybe November of 2019 — the results were inconclusive, so they sent me another kit. I felt like maybe I was an alien or something and wasn’t sure if I wanted to take it again, but my adopted mom thought I should. 

I took it again and was surprised to find that a young woman and I matched as first cousins. She messaged me first. I replied and said I would be okay to talk sometime, but my lack of patience and curiosity got the best of me. I started digging around to figure out how we were related, looking through Facebook and social media for clues. By the time she replied, I had already figured out that she was not my cousin but actually my sister, because we had the same father. She was raised by the maternal side of her family but had a very meaningful connection with our dad’s side as well, so she didn’t hesitate to introduce me to everyone who she knew.

From there, we messaged back and forth. In May, she said when I was ready, there were people who wanted to meet me. I thought about it for maybe two minutes and said I was in! I drove to Peoria, Illinois, with a friend for support because there were so many emotions running through me. On that day, I met my sister, a younger brother, an aunt, two cousins, a grandma and step-grandpa! Meeting my paternal family, they cried and stared at my face. Which was unnerving, to say the least. Apparently, I had an Aunt Mechelle who passed away and they thought we looked similar.  

From that first meeting, I have been up to visit at least once a month. The experience has been very overwhelming. At times, it is so hard for me to contain my excitement and anxiety over finally meeting my family. I found myself in the same room with four generations of Nichols women. Having that as an adult is something that brings happy tears to my eyes.   

When Black Lives Matter started, I became more socially aware of just how dangerous it is to simply exist in my skin. I wanted to talk to my adoptive family about it, but I realized they didn’t want to talk about race. In one of our family group chats, they shared a photo of my niece and my adopted father. She had on a onesie that said “my po-po’s life matters.” He is a cop. It led to me trying to tell them that “Blue Lives Matter” is simply a way to silence Black voices. My adopted father is only a cop when he is on the job. I am Black 24/7. Then one time, I went to a Black Lives Matter protest and I was told not to get stupid or violent. I took that moment to address some things I heard during my childhood that affected the way I looked at my skin. We haven’t really talked since then.

Now that I have found my family, I get to look at the most beautiful faces of different shades of brown and see a part of me. I carry that with me into the world. I think it is important for everyone to do whatever positive work you have to do to feel comfortable in your skin.

“The results make me feel very uniquely American”

Tracey Chambers, 55, Washington, DC

I first took a DNA test about 10 years ago, through a company called Ancestry by DNA. At first, I was excited to discover what exact countries of origin my ancestors came from in Africa. But my results came back and my makeup was 58 percent sub-Saharan African and 42 percent European. A subsequent Ancestry.com test showed a small percentage of Native American, too. 

I identified as Black prior to the test and I knew that there was some European ancestry, but not nearly as much as showed up in the test. I was totally surprised to find out that I had so much European ancestry, and it made me even have a small existential crisis. What did it mean that I had so much European blood? How did the mixture even happen? 

The results led me to research my family tree. I discovered that I have Dutch ancestors who arrived in New York in 1663, when it was still the Dutch colony of New Amsterdam. I even found out their names. By the late 1700s, records show descendants of those Dutch settlers described as mixed race, and by the early 20th century, census records describe them as “negro” or “colored.” On Ancestry.com. I started with my great-great-grandmother’s name that I already knew. Her mother’s last name was DeGroat. I was then able to trace DeGroats back to the 1660s in New York, and back to the 1500s in the Netherlands. I found the names of some Black ancestors as well as their locations, but there were far fewer details about them. 

I discussed it with my siblings, but our parents and grandparents have long since passed away. One of my siblings did his own DNA test after I did mine. We all had similar reactions and were just surprised to discover the history and grapple with what it meant for our blackness.

Ultimately, I settled on the truth: I am a Black woman with white DNA. I always have and always will identify as Black, but I am a particularly American example of what it means to be Black. I feel like my ancestry is the story of America — European settlers, earliest enslaved Africans, Native Americans.

My Blackness means community, and feeling connected, even across ethnicities and nationalities. For all Americans, there are so many similar cultural experiences, like the importance of family, pride in history. Various updates from Ancestry keep changing the African countries that they thought my ancestors were from, so it actually doesn’t make me feel more connected to Africa. But the results make me feel very uniquely American. 

“Now the knowledge that we could pass on to our children and that they can pass on to theirs is so much more”

Benjamin Jealous, 48, Maryland 

I first went on Ancestry.com 10 years ago. I started by researching my father’s side. They come from Europe, and there’s Roman records that go back forever. In three hours and half a bottle of wine, I had gotten all the way back to Merovingian kings in southern France and their now-debunked pedigree claiming that they descended from Jesus and Mary Magdalene. So I found myself like, “Jesus and Mary Magdalene, what?” Then I Googled and ended up finding out that it was all a lie, a ruse to justify the “divine right of kings.” That was still such a fascinating experience and it emboldened me to try to dig into my family’s more difficult history, which was my mom’s side of the family. 

I found out that the DNA ancestors of the last generation to survive slavery in my family descend from some of the first settlers of Virginia, including William Randolph and his wife, who were known as the Adam and Eve of Virginia. I already knew that my family also descended from two Reconstructionist statesmen on my mom’s side, but I wanted to dig even deeper. For that, I had to go back into the census and into little Southern newspapers. What really hit me was that I found a little article about one of my ancestors, Peter G. Morgan: 

Morgan was born into slavery in the early 1800s but made enough money as a self-taught shoe and saddle maker to buy his own freedom. He eventually even bought the freedom of others in his family, including his wife, who he reportedly purchased for $1,000. 

The story was about him in the late 1860s throwing a Confederate colonel out of his store. The colonel had heard him give a speech on the steps of the Virginia state Capitol and was outraged about it. So he burst into Peter’s cobbler shop, screaming at him about his speech. Peter ordered his son to show the colonel out of his store, and the colonel pulled out a sidearm and shot his son through the window. His son survived; it hit him in his leg. 

By that time, I was addicted to ancestry. I felt proud that he [Morgan] had the courage and conviction that it took to draw a line and remove a man — who was similar to those who raided the Capitol on January 6 — from his store. I also felt sad and angry that I couldn’t find any stories after that about that man being tried or convicted. 

My book, The Price of Progress, is a look at 150 years of the Black freedom struggle from 1864 to 2013, informed by my family’s DNA and digital databases. These incredible sources of information have allowed us to be much more ambitious in telling a story and also in just understanding who we are. 

Now the knowledge that we could pass on to our children and that they can pass on to theirs is so much more. Ultimately, I hope that the book inspires others to dig deeper into not just who they are, but who we are as a people and as a country — what America is as an experiment.

]]> Tiffanie Drayton <![CDATA[On Waiting]]> https://www.vox.com/the-highlight/22152504/racism-america-refugee 2020-12-16T10:41:18-05:00 2020-12-16T10:30:00-05:00

When I first left America, I left behind a lifetime of waiting for racism to end. 

It was 2013, I was 23 and had just finished college. I bought a one-way ticket dated the day of the graduation ceremony. As the plane took off from JFK and landed in Trinidad, relief washed over me. I finally felt like I could breathe. I had no plan for how I would make a life for myself, but I knew there wasn’t one for me back in America. Still, I tried time and time again, even after that moment, to return to the home I knew, only to realize again that it would never fully embrace me as a Black woman. 

Measuring the harm of racism, of something as all-encompassing, and as subtle as it is overt, is an impossible task. But when I finally picked up and left, my decision felt born out of time that had been stolen from me. The hours I had sunk into internalizing negative messages about Blackness, moving after being priced out of neighborhoods, reconfiguring my identity and my body to try to appease white standards, and begging for others to acknowledge the pain and trauma I had endured. Fighting to survive as Black woman in America had exhausted me. 

How can I account for the number of seconds, minutes, days, years, that I waited, and waited, for a day uncolored by racism? It’s unquantifiable, but here’s my best guess: There are the hundreds of hours I spent astutely absorbing history lessons as a child, my kinky hair braided or pulled into Afro puffs, wondering why the brown faces in my textbooks that resembled mine were consolidated into chapters only about their pain and struggle. The moon rose high the many nights I lay in bed contemplating the hideousness of racism that incited crowds of white people to scream and jeer at little Black girls and boys who dared venture into whiter pastures in search of an education. Behind the darkness of my eyelids played images of enslaved Black people sojourning through the woods of the South with only the North Star serving as a beacon of hope for their freedom. 

Countless sunrises illuminated my mother’s travails in search of the basic necessities for her and her family. A single parent, she worked for decades as a hospice nurse at the bedsides of dying patients — some of whom were old and white and called her racial epithets — to provide for her three children. The sun set on many family dinners while Mom tried to explain why we could no longer attend the “good” school. 

“I can’t afford to buy, I’m sorry,” mom would say when we were priced out of our Florida neighborhood, her voice heavy with shame and defeat.

I spent 300 hours of my childhood on road trips moving from New Jersey to Texas, Florida and back, 30 hours moving my family’s things from home to home. Once, we tied mattresses to the hood of our car and laughed while stuffing towels into the cracked windows to stop the rain from leaking in and soaking us. 

Such hardships never stopped the labor of my bootstrap-pulling. As a young woman, I tied my sneaker laces too many times to count and clocked hours running, the bass of the music in my ears setting the pace of my quest to slim down like the white women I watched on television. I buried myself in my studies and maintained mostly A grades in school and university, all in a quest for social mobility and assimilation and “success.” Perhaps then, I hoped, I would be more desirable and acceptable in the white world that promised comfort and security. 

As a writer, for years I argued that generations of people should never inherit wealth or hardship purely based on their skin color, and that we must close America’s racial wealth gap with reparations if the country truly aspires to equality. 

“I don’t see color” was the most common dismissal I heard of my writing, as if America’s ghettoization of Blackness was something hard to see.

It was especially evident to me when I spent 72 weeks of my life pregnant. During my first prenatal doctor’s visit, I waited for three hours to be seen by a white male doctor for 10 minutes in a clinic that served mostly Black women. 

“Your next appointment with the doctor will be in about four weeks,” the nurse told me, though I had barely received any medical care. I knew in that moment that I’d need to spend more time looking for another doctor. 

Afterward, I sat for two hours on the phone with the Medicaid bureaucracy before I was able to see a doctor in a “better” part of town that served a more diverse clientele. I left the new doctor’s office with a prescription for levothyroxine for hypothyroidism after blood tests revealed that I was not producing enough thyroid hormone necessary for a fetus to properly develop. Had I waited as suggested by my doctor, my health would have been at risk. And my firstborn might have had developmental issues or even died in my womb, leaving us another Black infant mortality or maternal death statistic.

I endured seven total hours in labor to bring my two children into the world. In those first hours of their lives, I prayed that I would find a way to provide for, support, and protect them from the racism that made my life so much more difficult. That the world would see them through my eyes, in all their perfection, forever. 

But when I tried to envision the future my Black children would have in America, I could only see their lives marred by pain, hardship, and degradation. I was haunted by fears of my son becoming the next Trayvon Martin or Tamir Rice — Black boys gunned down by police or vigilantes for merely existing. In my daughter’s tiny brown face, I saw the vulnerability of Black girls like Honestie Hodges, who died of the coronavirus at age 14, only three years after her violent arrest by Michigan police made national headlines. With them in tow, I boarded a flight back to my birth country, hoping the choice could set them on a safer trajectory. One filled with welcome and opportunity for their Blackness.

Centuries after millions of enslaved Africans journeyed across the Atlantic in the belly of slave ships, their spirits, and those of the millions of Black lives claimed by the white appetite for Black suffering, haunt America. They stand behind the millions of Black Americans still fighting to survive a centuries-old genocidal system. They visit me in my nightmares. Their backs are scarred, their wrists, ankles, and necks are bruised, and their bodies are riddled by bullet holes.

The gaping lesions created by systemic racism are widening and continue to fester as thousands of Black lives are claimed by Covid-19, which has disproportionately impacted communities of color that were already insufficiently armed to win the war against the pandemic. Families of color are being plunged into economic despair in a “K-shaped” recovery that favors white families and turns a blind eye to Black suffering. This is one of America’s darkest moments, and the North Star cannot lead Black people to the light of freedom.

Two years have passed since I left America for good, finally accepting that the country may never make good on its promise of full citizenry for Black people. I tallied the centuries’ worth of fighting expended by Black Americans and the many hundreds of hours I spent thinking, enduring, and battling — and I realized I could see no end to the struggle in my lifetime. 

I am 30 years old and my life is not yet perfect, but it’s so much better. My sister joined me seven months after I moved, and my mother joined us in the months that followed. Together, we eat breakfast and drink coffee every morning while the kids play, free of the burdens we certainly would have carried had we remained in the US. If Mom had waited longer, she, as a nurse, could have been among those whose lives were claimed by Covid-19. 

It’s hard not to be overwhelmed by the guilt of surviving and escaping while so many continue to suffer. Not everyone has the option. And moving far away from family and community connections is hard. I understand why someone couldn’t make that sacrifice.

But there was something I couldn’t sacrifice, either — another moment.

Tiffanie Drayton is a writer working on her first memoir about escaping American racism (Penguin/Random House 2021). She previously wrote for Vox about what reparations means for Black women and Americans living abroad who voted in the 2020 election.

]]> Tiffanie Drayton Nikisia Drayton <![CDATA[“I can’t sit this one out”: 6 expats on why voting from abroad is so important this year]]> https://www.vox.com/first-person/21454323/voting-from-abroad-election-2020 2020-10-09T17:58:47-04:00 2020-10-09T08:00:00-04:00
Voting by absentee ballot is especially challenging for Americans voting abroad during this year’s pandemic. Here, absentee ballot election workers stuff ballot applications in Charlotte, North Carolina in September 2020. | Logan Cyrus/AFP via Getty Images

Voting from overseas is usually a fairly easy process. US citizens living abroad request an absentee ballot (by email, fax, or mail, depending on their state of residence), fill it out, and mail it to their county board of elections. But in 2020, the process feels especially fraught. As measures to mitigate the spread of Covid-19 forced the closure of some international borders, mail disruptions have thrown a wrench into the usually smooth procedure.

Then there’s President Donald Trump, who has voiced skepticism of the validity of the absentee voting process. In August, Trump announced his opposition to more funding for the US Postal Service to help it handle an expected influx of mail-in ballots amid reports of growing delays in mail delivery and the removal of dozens of mailboxes by USPS (which were suspended due to the uproar).

The result has been an erosion of confidence in an election that will lean heavily on mailed ballots: In an August NBC/SurveyMonkey poll, 55 percent of American adults said they were either “not too confident” or “not at all confident” about the fairness of the election.

But many expats have already begun the process of voting, having decided not to allow such hurdles to hinder them from exercising their constitutional right. Per the most recent Overseas Citizen Population Analysis report, 2.9 million eligible American voters live overseas; in 2016, Democrats Abroad called them a “very blue voting bloc.”

For Black Americans living abroad in particular, this election feels crucially important to making their voices heard.

If you’re living abroad as an American, voting residence is necessary to vote by absentee ballot in US elections. Your election office needs your exact voting residence address to determine which offices and candidates you are eligible to vote for — even if you’re voting for federal offices only. Your voting residence is your address in the state in which you last resided immediately prior to leaving the US.

From there, go to the Federal Voting Assistance Program website, complete the Federal Post Card Application, and return it to your election office. (Some states accept the form by email; see your state’s rules in the FVAP’s Voting Assistance Guide.) Once you receive your ballot, fill it out, sign it, and mail it back to your local election office. Follow the instructions sent with your ballot if you’re unsure.

If there isn’t enough time to receive and send back your ballot before the election, use the Federal Write-in Absentee Ballot as a backup. (If your official absentee ballot arrives after sending in the FWAB, fill out and send in the official ballot too. Only one will be counted.)

Deadlines for requesting and sending ballots differ by state. All state deadlines can be viewed here.

Information provided by the Federal Voting Assistance Program.

“It is imperative that I vote — my ancestors fought too long and died in the process for me to be able to,” said Kenna Williams, who lives in South Africa but has voting residence in California. “This year’s election is probably the most crucial election I have ever experienced, so I want to make sure I do my part.”

Vox talked to six Americans about their experiences casting ballots from abroad and the potential impact of their vote during an extraordinary time in American history. The interviews have been lightly edited for length and clarity.

“I can’t sit this one out”

Miles White, 65, retired university professor, currently lives in Hungary (voting residence: Washington state)

I’m voting as a Washington resident because I went to grad school there. Ironically, I’m from Selma, Alabama, originally, a pivotal place in the history of US voting rights — although as far as I know, my parents never voted, even when it was legal to do it after the Voting Rights Act passed in 1965. I think they were still afraid. They never even talked to me about whether I should vote or not. That’s how afraid I think they were.

I think I cast my first national vote for Jimmy Carter when he was running for reelection against Ronald Reagan, and I’ve voted in every presidential election since then until I left the country 13 years ago. I haven’t voted since I’ve been overseas, for one reason or the other. But I’ll be honest with you: I think the country is on a path to authoritarian fascism that’s very real and very dangerous under this president. The president of the United States is unfit to serve and needs to be removed from office. That’s really it. I can’t sit this one out!

A friend sent me a link to the Federal Voting Assistance Program website where I could order the ballot so I didn’t have to go looking around for it. I filled out an online form and got an electronic ballot from King County in Washington state for the state and local elections. I was supposed to mark the ballot, print it, and mail it, but I skipped those questions. I have no idea who anybody is in state and local politics anymore. I left the US more than a decade ago, so I only know people at the national level because I still read American newspapers.

I’m waiting for the national ballot but I haven’t gotten it yet, so I’m wondering if they’re going to send it to me in time to get it mailed back. But if I get it in October, I’ll turn it around as quickly as I can.

“Although I am happy to not have to personally experience it, I do have friends still in America”

Stefan Coretti, 32, recent MBA graduate, currently lives in Paris (voting residence: New Jersey)

Watching America from abroad is like watching American Horror Story on FX. With greater video evidence of injustices across America, and now the death of Ruth Bader Ginsburg, America under Trump could mean the erosion of anything that protects middle- and lower-income citizens and the reversal of rights recently given to marginalized communities.

Although I am happy to not have to personally experience it, I do have friends still in America. And the fact is we are in a global economy and the world is tied together. My hope is to get a Democrat in office so some balance can then be applied to the equation.

I have voted from abroad before, but this year I’m in a different country. The process itself is not confusing, but I believe it should be a lot simpler for those already registered.

I have no concerns that my vote will be on time to be counted, but seeing that I’m not in a swing state, my personal vote may not have a large impact. My major concern is if Trump loses, he may try to make an amendment to give himself more years in office.

“We all need to pull our weight no matter where we are”

Kenna Williams, 43, businesswoman, currently lives in South Africa (voting residence: California)

It is imperative that I vote — my ancestors fought too long and died in the process for me to be able to. My parents were regular election poll workers and I grew up in a household where voting was a priority. This year’s election is probably the most crucial election I have ever experienced, so I want to make sure I do my part. I’ve been voting since I was 18.

The process for overseas voting is quite simple. Here in South Africa, we have had several meetings on Zoom and other virtual conferences to help people receive their absentee ballots. You fill out the forms from FVAP.gov, print them out, and send them to your local election office. After that, you will receive your ballot. The local embassy and consulate here will be mailing ballots back to the states, so it’s a pretty straightforward process. The process is fairly smooth.

I am in the local voting WhatsApp groups, where they have people on hand to help us daily. I feel like the votes will get there on time now that our borders opened up on October 1, although I am more concerned about people in the states not voting. We all need to pull our weight no matter where we are.

“Right now our borders are still closed, so I am hoping everything gets in on time”

Dianne Davidson, 59, nurse, currently lives in Trinidad and Tobago (voting residence: New Jersey)

Although I am not currently living there, I still have ties to the US. I have spent almost half my life living there. I still have my house, some of my family, and close friends there. I keep up with all the news, so I am keeping up with state and local elections, too.

I think it is important to vote in this election, especially seeing the toll the pandemic has had. Many of my friends are in fear of losing their jobs, and those on unemployment are still awaiting payments. It has been stressful watching what’s happening with the riots, Black Lives Matter, and the president’s response to everything. For me, voting is the only way to make my voice heard from thousands of miles away.

I know I must cast an absentee ballot, but this would be my first time doing so. I used  FVAP.gov, which was like a one-stop shop; it even had a tutorial that broke down the process. Truthfully, I was hoping I can simply vote at the US Embassy right here in Trinidad, but I found they only help with mailing after the forms are already filled out and signed. Right now our borders are still closed, so I am hoping everything gets in on time.

“It has been difficult to watch America descend into the chaos”

David Macdonald, 46, elected official in local government, currently lives in Scotland (voting residence: Florida)

I have voted in every election since I was eligible to vote. But this election I believe not to be about blue versus red. For me, it is about the very survival of our republic and the values of democracy that many of us hold so dear. Nothing more important is bestowed upon us than our individual right and ability to cast our ballot to determine the future of our country. Rich or poor, educated or not, we all are given this right in equal measure. I cherish it like I’m protecting a candle in the wind.

It has been difficult to watch America descend into the chaos it finds itself in now. As an American abroad, I am passionately proud of my country and want to see leadership that will restore it to its place in the world in tackling the global challenges that face us all — climate change, distribution of wealth, a fair and affordable health care system, the eradication of institutionalized racism, and a sensible solution to gun violence. I believe in America for all of her wonderful potential to be a force for good in this world. We have lost our way and we are down right now, but we are certainly not out. We can come together again and fight together for what is right.

Being abroad one can opt to vote by mail or, in my state, by fax. Voting by fax means you give up your right to a secret ballot. I personally don’t use that option, as I simply do not trust that the ballot would be safe on its journey to be counted. I opt for delivery of my ballot by email. I simply print it out, fill it in, sign it to match my signature that is held [on file], and then send it back to the supervisor of elections in my home state county. The process is a very simple and straightforward one.

I do feel confident that my ballot will be counted. I have complete faith in the integrity of our electoral counting system.

“I literally spent the last three days taking care of this issue to be able to have my vote count in this upcoming presidential election”

Jessy Schuster, 40, producer and TV host, currently lives in Guadeloupe (voting residence: Florida)

I started voting as soon as I could, legally speaking. I registered in 2008 and I have been voting ever since in all elections that I was eligible to vote in.

Although it will sound like a cliché, to me voting is the most democratic process that exists today. So many women, Black people, and Native Americans fought before me to give future generations the right and the opportunity to fill out a ballot and elect our officials and presidents, so I cannot stay home and not participate in this process.

2020 is a crucial year. The list of critical issues and problems in America is growing and our leaders don’t seem close to finding a solution or even pretending to find one. This year has seen so many turning points, from the Black Lives Matter protests and the government’s reaction to it, to police brutality, the environmental crisis, and the response to the Covid-19 crisis. Fake news and lies have become the daily norms and most Americans believe everything they read on social media and hear on the news without any critical thinking, fact-checking, or accountability. It is scary to imagine the future beyond November 3 — regardless of who will win — because America feels divided on every single issue with no sign of a peaceful solution.

That said, the electoral voting system is not ideal in terms of the “every vote counts” mantra that our country is promoting, but right now this is what we have to work with. But voting has been confusing this year because I was under the impression I could send back my filled-out ballot by email or fax, but I have to mail it back. I had to reach out to the election offices several times by phone to get clear directions. It took 10 days for someone to send me back my ballot by email, and I consider myself being an early bird. The election office in my city told me it was only one person who was answering emails. I wish her luck.

My husband will be voting for the first time in this election, and for him it’s a little more complicated because they don’t have his signature on file, which means that his FPCA [Federal Post Card Application] has to be returned by mail to the USA from France, which will take time. Then he will receive a ballot back that has to be sent back again to the US. I wish we could have a “designated” voter, to go in person to represent you at the voting booth, like in French elections. You fill out a form and notarize it, and this person can vote in your name at the booth. I do realize it can be considered risky because of fraud, but several countries do it.

I am not 100 percent confident that my ballot will make it in on time, to be honest. I literally spent the last three days taking care of this issue to be able to have my vote count in this upcoming presidential election. I am mostly worried for my husband’s ballot because the back-and-forth mailing in the time of Covid-19 between the USA and France might not work within the legal time frame allowed.

Tiffanie Drayton is a freelance writer. Find her on Twitter @draytontiffanie.

Nikisia Drayton is a writer and counselor 

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]]> Tiffanie Drayton <![CDATA[1 in 3 Black Americans knows someone who died of Covid-19. These stories capture the toll taken by the disease.]]> https://www.vox.com/first-person/2020/8/26/21400035/coronavirus-covid-19-mortality-black-americans 2020-08-26T14:14:53-04:00 2020-08-26T08:30:00-04:00
Desha Hargrove lost her husband, Jason, an essential worker in Detroit, Michigan, to Covid-19. | Courtesy of Desha Hargrove

Nationwide protests this summer have brought much attention to a crisis as old as our country — the countless Black lives lost to police violence. But there is another invisible war that Black Americans are losing: the battle against Covid-19. To date, more than 5.7 million people have been reported to be infected with the disease in the US; more than 178,000 have died. And the country’s most vulnerable communities have had to bear the brunt of America’s failure to contain the disease. 

According to a June Washington Post poll, one in three Black Americans personally knows someone who has died of Covid-19, compared to 17 percent of Hispanics and 9 percent of white adults who said they have lost a friend, acquaintance, or loved one to the disease. 

Yet the disproportionate toll the coronavirus has taken on communities of color was easy to anticipate. From historical redlining and segregation that created environments where Black people are packed into densely populated housing “projects” to the wealth gap spurred by years of discriminatory practices to systemic health care discrepancies, it is clear that Black America has long been battling to survive. 

For many Black Americans, the impacts of the pandemic are compounded. Many have one or more family members who have died of the disease on top of neighbors, friends, friends of friends, or others in their communities. Facebook feeds are full of posts announcing another death, another virtual funeral, another remembrance page. 

“Every time you look up, there is another RIP post, or a friend seeking prayers for their loved one who is battling this cruel virus,” said Desha Hargrove of Detroit, who lost her husband to Covid-19 in March. “I am simply devastated at how this virus has mainly impacted our communities.”

We asked three Black people who lost loved ones to share what it’s like to experience multiple deaths, sometimes within families, neighborhoods, or larger communities — and what it’s like to cope, often from a distance. These are their stories. 

“I lost the greatest love of my life and, unfortunately, have also been deeply affected by the loss of five others”

Desha Hargrove, Detroit, Michigan

Lost her husband, Jason Hargrove

Michigan, like states all across the US, did not implement strict mask mandates in a timely fashion. On July 10, months after Desha Hargrove’s husband Jason died, Gov. Gretchen Whitmer issued an executive order requiring businesses to refuse service in most cases to customers not wearing masks. By then, the state had reported more than 67,000 confirmed cases and more than 6,000 deaths, with Detroit — a mostly Black city — taking the biggest hit. 

Jason and I knew each other for 23 years and we were happily married for 12. We were introduced through mutual friends — the friends didn’t last, but Jason and I did. I would describe Jason as a loving gentle giant, so much fun. He loved to DJ and was a great father to our five children.

When the reports started coming out about this virus, nobody understood what was going on. You were hearing about this “flu-like” bug, so we put in our minds that it was just a flu, but a stronger strain of it. Still, we knew we had to take precautions, because he was a [bus driver] public worker. 

Initially, there was no order in place and masks weren’t required. But Jason was very careful and made sure to spray surfaces with disinfectant and even wear gloves. He put up a message on social media one day saying a lady was coughing on the bus carelessly, telling people to cover up and wear masks to protect themselves and him. That day, when he came home, he was really distressed about her coughing. He sat the rest of the day in disgust. I tried to comfort him.

The next two days, Jason started to feel funny. He told me he felt like he was coming down with a cold. I started laughing and told him, “Don’t you start that.” I knew he could sometimes be such a big baby and I thought he was exaggerating. But that Sunday he was really tired. He liked to DJ, so I pushed so much that night for him to play music. He got on live, did a video. We had fun, until about 2 am. By Monday morning, it was coming down on him and by the next day, he had a high fever. 

I took him to the emergency. I didn’t get out of the parking lot before he called me and told me he was ready for me to come pick him up — it was that fast. They told him to go on a 14-day quarantine and gave a prescription for Tylenol and a prescription for high blood pressure, because his pressure was high. When I asked if they tested him, he said no.

He went home and started home remedies and he called his job to let them know — he was still worried about work. Not too long after, I noticed his cuticles were blue and took him to emergency again. It was an extremely beautiful spring day in Detroit and many people were out on the streets. I was so angry at them. During his second visit to the ER, they listened to his lungs and said they were clear and that the fever would break. They didn’t test him, again.

The next day, Jason asked me to set him up in another room in the house because he didn’t want to get me sick. That was so hard for me. It was even harder when I heard him crying in the bathroom. He was crying so hard and praying, asking God to remove whatever sickness is in his body. “What is this? Take this out of my body,” he pleaded.

He went to the hospital again, and he was finally admitted. The hospital never called. They never let me know anything. I called and called and called. When I finally got through to a nurse and asked to talk to my husband, she told me he couldn’t talk because he was on a ventilator, like all of the patients on that floor. Still, one of the nurses assured me he was going to be “just fine.”

The next morning was April 1 and I called first thing. I got the run-around for over an hour. First they told me there was no one by that name on the floor, then they put me on hold several times. Finally, a doctor broke the news to me that my husband had passed. “Please tell me this is April Fools’ Day,” I thought to myself.

They never called me. I never got one update. Then I saw Jason all over the news. His video message [a YouTube video telling people to wear masks on the bus] had gone viral. I saw the mayor do a news conference on him, but nobody called me, his wife.

When I finally got the death certificate, I found out he died on the 31st — the day they said he was doing so well. He died only an hour after, and no one ever reached out to his family. You tell me: Did this Black life matter?

My life has been greatly impacted by this terrible virus. I lost the greatest love of my life and, unfortunately, have also been deeply affected by the loss of five others — all of whom were Black, beautiful human beings. I am simply devastated at how this virus has mainly impacted our communities. I am still asking, “Why?” Every time you look up, there is another RIP post, or a friend seeking prayers for their loved one who is battling this cruel virus. Just horrifying!

“The response [from the government] seems to convey, ‘Let them die’”

Cassandra White, Houston, Texas

Lost her wife, Vickey Gibbs

In Houston, Texas — where two of Desha’s children virtually attended a service for their father — Cassandra White is still reeling from the loss of her wife, Vickey Gibbs, a church pastor. Houston is another city where the disease has disproportionately claimed the lives of Black people. A breakdown of fatalities by race revealed that 57 percent of those who have died in the city of Covid-19 were African American.

For a system that is not set up to actually be “equal,” it’s expected that more Black people would hurt from the pandemic.

Vickey was a voice for many people of color. She was the advocate. She spoke up. She was that presence. She had already been living with systemic lupus and lived longer than expected, so she was very careful. She wore gloves, sprayed disinfectant, used hand sanitizer, and washed her hands. She was also still very active as much as she could be. 

It saddens me and upsets me. We are a people who thrive in community bonding. Whether it’s at home, at the family cookout, or the Sunday church service, being in community and being with family of birth or by choice is our superpower and currently our downfall. Anytime she could be on the front lines with the movement, there would always be people who would follow her. She spoke for marginalized folks and was constantly emailing and writing letters to senators.

On June 30, she took a test. Right around that time, Sahara dust was coming through, so we weren’t really sure [it was Covid-19] until we got the results. We were both in denial about it. When I found out she was positive, I was angry because of all of the things we avoided in order for her to not get it. 

She was always in pain but learned how to manage that pain successfully. Having the virus and having lupus, she knew full well what the possibilities were by the time it was bad enough for her to go to the hospital.

They told me right away that she was very, very sick and they would do everything they could to pull her through. They were really honest. They didn’t beat around the bush. The ICU nurses were coming down to help her because everywhere was full. She was never able to get a bed in the ICU. They were hoping to transfer her, but everything was booked. 

The ER was the last place that she wanted to be. I personally feel like we waited too long to get her help. We were both in denial and not having enough information about the disease. Now I want people to know that if you can’t breathe, whether you know you’re positive or not, chances are it’s pneumonia. Please go to the ER. It’s one of those unfortunate life lessons that we can hopefully help someone else not to have. Even though you may be a fighter, you may be able to get through this, but there are things you can get at the hospital that will help.

The response [from the government] seems to convey, “Let them die.” It seems to me that there is a systematic attack on people of color to exterminate us one by one by any means necessary. The government is pushing to reopen schools. And they have and are, but at what cost? Our children are our future. But sadly, for many Black and Brown people, keeping the children at home is not feasible. 

RMCC has lost three members that I know of. Some other deaths were undetermined. Many others have been very sick and recovered. Many have lost family members and not been able to be with them at the end of their life. For a congregation that had such a large number of deaths during the AIDS epidemic, half of the whole, it can cause flashbacks to that time when we did not know what was next, had so many to grieve at the same time, and had both rational and irrational fears of contagion. 

We are starting two different grief groups at the end of this month. We continue to do curbside service for those needing food from Pride Charities. The demand has grown. 

“People here don’t have the resources like a middle-class white family”

Kern Bruce, Spotswood, New Jersey

Lost his aunt and cousin to Covid-19

The East Coast was the epicenter of the disease when it first arrived on America’s shores, with New York and New Jersey taking the hardest hits. In New Jersey, a state where about 15 percent of residents are Black, about 20 percent of deaths from coronavirus were Black. Newark, one of New Jersey’s biggest cities, with a high proportion of Black, low-income residents, reported more than 190,000 cases and more than 14,000 deaths as of August 25. Kern Bruce’s aunt was among those Black casualties.

A Black man holds a painted portrait of George Floyd with a halo of light behind his head.

I lost my cousin and aunt to Covid-19. They both passed within two weeks of each other. When I found out, it was just out of nowhere like, “Oh, your aunt has Covid.” And a few days later it was like, “She passed from Covid.” Same thing with my cousin.

It shook me to my core. 

In both situations, nobody could go to the funeral. The funerals were held via YouTube. It took me weeks to click on the link to watch it. It was just such a strange way of sending someone off — so removed from what was actually happening. The point of a funeral is not just for the person who died or for the people who passed; it’s a way of coping for families left behind. To grieve together, hug. You can’t do that in these circumstances.

During quarantine, my uncle took my cousin out to the market to run errands. We suspect he contracted it simply by being outside in public. Luckily, my uncle didn’t contract it. I wish that people took this more seriously in the beginning.

When I first heard about the pandemic, the first thing that came to mind was Newark. Newark is my heart. I have so many wonderful experiences there and lived there for years. But sadly, I saw the writing on the wall. It has a population of [Black] people who are in low-income circumstances and people living on top of each other.  

The American health care system has implicit bias in terms of treatment. How was that going to work in the pandemic? People there don’t have the resources like a middle-class white family. People are being turned away from hospitals. Of course, poor people are not going to get the same kind of health care as someone who makes 100k a year.

The dude who is occupying the White House has made science a political thing. It’s so weird that the richest country in the world is doing so poorly. People who are historically accustomed to things working in their favor, they are in a very privileged position. They are so self-absorbed and conditioned to expect things to work for them that something as simple as wearing a mask becomes a whole affront on their freedom.

I don’t know what’s going to happen. There’s just this tremendous anxiety.

Tiffanie Drayton is a freelance writer. Find her on Twitter @draytontiffanie.

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]]> Tiffanie Drayton <![CDATA[Global protests reveal that white supremacy is a problem everywhere]]> https://www.vox.com/first-person/2020/6/23/21299054/black-lives-matter-george-floyd-protests-white-supremacy 2020-06-23T12:10:42-04:00 2020-06-23T12:00:00-04:00
Members of Economic Freedom Fighters (EFF) protest against the killing of George Floyd outside the US Embassy in solidarity with Black Lives Matter Movement in Pretoria, South Africa, on June 8. | Alet Pretorius/Gallo Images via Getty Images

The summer of 2015, I watched from overseas as fires set Ferguson ablaze and “Black Lives Matter” became the rallying cry of Black Americans. These cries were mostly confined to the Missouri city and other metropolitan areas, and came from the voices of Black Americans. They didn’t ring out in Trinidad and Tobago, where I was living and had fled to due to systemic racism. 

Now, years later, social unrest is gripping the US in response to the killing of George Floyd at the hands of police, and racism has come under the microscope once again. But this time, the uprisings are happening across the world.

Earlier this month, hundreds took to the streets to stand in solidarity with Black Lives Matter in Poland. On the same day, Tokyo protesters marched and carried signs that read “Stop racism in Japan!” and “Black Lives Matter.” In Bogota, Colombia, local protesters burned an American flag and also called attention to police brutality and racism within its own borders, including the death of Anderson Arboleda, who was killed by Colombian police for violating quarantine. From London to South Africa, thousands are taking a stand in solidarity with African Americans in the fight against police brutality. 

As an American expat, it’s been awe-inspiring to witness a nascent anti-racism movement being born in real time here in Trinidad and Tobago, once again brought about by the activism of tireless African Americans. Although a country that boasts multiculturalism and acceptance, my small island home still faces its fair share of hurdles in freeing us from racism and the legacy of slavery.

As #BlackOutTuesday — a call for Black Americans to show strength in dollars by not purchasing goods for 24 hours — took hold on June 2, Trinidadians called for the boycott of businesses owned by men who made racist remarks about Black people in the wake of George Floyd’s death. Black entrepreneurs also pulled their products from the store’s shelves and many began circulating lists of Black-owned enterprises on social media. On June 8, more than 500 people showed up to protest in front of the United States Embassy in the country’s capital, Port of Spain. It was the second protest in a few days where Trinidadians took a stand in solidarity with #BlackLivesMatter.

It’s become clear that what started as a hashtag movement has now morphed into a worldwide phenomenon, and we cannot even begin to assess the scope of the impact it will have on global politics and political ideology. Black Lives Matter is now a cry heard around the world that has prompted response and action from global citizens in a way that hasn’t been seen since the 1960s civil rights era. Protests in each country have taken on different issues, but at their core they represent the struggle against white supremacy across the world.

It’s not so different from what happened half a century ago when mass protests across America led to political gains for African Americans, like the passage of voting rights laws and the end of Jim Crow. Similar to Black Lives Matter, the influence of the movement for Black rights in America was not confined to its borders. The ideologies of Black liberation, peaceful protest, and the fight to secure Black rights spread across the world, inspiring global political change.

It is within this context that Ghana became the first African nation to gain its freedom in March 1957, a political victory heralded with celebrations attended by Martin Luther King Jr. In 1963, a young Black British social worker named Paul Stephenson employed the bus boycott tactics of Martin Luther King Jr. to desegregate Bristol Omnibus Co., forcing the company to hire Black and Asian bus drivers. In the same decade, various Black Caribbean nations emancipated themselves from European colonialism — including Trinidad and Tobago and Jamaica, which both won their independence from British rule in 1962, followed by Barbados (1966), Bahamas (1973), Grenada (1974), Dominica (1978) and so on. 

The plain fact is that the momentum of the civil rights era certainly created the climate for change all around the world, and the same rings true of Black Lives Matter today. In Johannesburg, South Africa, 100 protesters disrupted thoroughfare in front of the US consulate when they knelt in the street for 8 minutes and 46 seconds — the length of time the Minneapolis police officer had his knee on the neck of George Floyd. Another march to the US Embassy was joined by the partner of Collins Khosa, a Black South African man who died after soldiers beat him during the country’s lockdown to stop the spread of the coronavirus. Residents of a poor Nairobi, Kenya, district held Black Lives Matter-inspired protests to call attention to their own plight with police violence, where at least 15 people were killed by police after the country imposed curfews to contain the spread of Covid-19, according to the Independent Policing Oversight Authority (IPOA).

For Europeans, the emergence of Black Lives Matter has forced many across the continent to grapple with its ugly history of racism. In Bristol, UK, protesters dumped a statue of Edward Colston, a 17th-century slave trader, into the nearby River Avon. Though decried by Prime Minister Boris Johnson as a “criminal act,” many Britons have heralded the final demise of the statue as “necessary,” after years of cries demanding its removal and the removal of Colston’s name from public buildings fell on deaf ears. In Belgium, a statue of King Leopold II was taken down and rehomed after sustaining damage from protesters who vandalized and burned the monument. Leopold’s colonial regime claimed the lives of millions of Congolese people who were tortured by the Belgian king at the turn of the 20th century.

Meanwhile, in Brazil, an anti-racist and anti-facist rally was held in solidarity with Black Lives Matter that also called attention to the country’s own problem with police brutality. In 2019, 1,810 people were reportedly killed by cops in Rio de Janeiro. Australians also used the moment to protest against the deaths of Aboriginals while in police custody.  

When I left America and moved to Trinidad and Tobago, I wanted a life free of the systemic racism where I grew up. My life is better here — I don’t worry about constant police harassment. I walk through my neighborhood with my children and am surrounded by people of color.

But these protests are a reminder of the fact that no matter where I live, there is still plenty of work that has to be done in order to rid this world of racist hate. Yet where there is global white supremacy, there is also global resistance. 

Tiffanie Drayton is a freelance writer. Find her on Twitter @draytontiffanie.

]]> Tiffanie Drayton <![CDATA[Reparations aren’t just political. They’re deeply personal.]]> https://www.vox.com/first-person/2019/11/1/20883660/racism-reparations-2019-police-brutality 2019-10-31T17:08:43-04:00 2019-11-01T07:30:00-04:00
Black women, girls, and their allies from across the city came out to march in solidarity in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, on September 14, 2019.  | Cory Clark/NurPhoto via Getty Images

The first time the father of my children verbally accosted me, I had suggested locs for our then-unborn daughter. We were driving through our Jersey City neighborhood and I was six months pregnant.

“You want to make all the decisions!” he screamed while angrily speeding down the road. When I tried to explain to him that he may not understand what it takes to care for a little black girl’s hair, he bellowed, “You tryna say I’m gonna be a bad father?”

Violent, angry outbursts became normal in our interactions once I became pregnant. In an instant, the father of my children would go from being the warmest, most dedicated man to a monster. Then, after every eruption, he pretended like it never happened or promised it was the last time.

It never was.

On his first Father’s Day, he became enraged after waking up to find me absent from our shared bed. I had slipped out earlier that morning to buy us groceries to make a big breakfast.

“Tell me who you were with!” he screamed.

The father of my children has raged in front of my family, my neighbors, my friends, and even strangers. He uses aggression and manipulation to control me. 

“Abuse is never okay,” my therapist told me when I shared these stories. 

I nodded in response. But the phrase triggered a cascade of confusing thoughts. If abuse is never okay, why does popular culture repeatedly refer to black women as “bitches,” “hoes,” and “thots”? If abuse is never okay, why do the police abuse black people, sometimes even kill us, and then resort to victim-blaming or gaslighting to excuse their behavior? If abuse is never okay, why does America continue to abuse its black citizens?

Abuse is all I’ve ever known as a black woman in this country. I alone do not have the power to fight against it. It’s a cycle that will take more than me to end it.

These cycles are what black people are trying to eradicate when we talk about the need for reparations. Reparations are not just about righting the wrong of slavery itself, they are also about addressing the longstanding systemic racism that continues to impact the lives of black people to this day. It is this legacy of abuses against black people that has resulted in a complex, racist system that wreaks havoc on black lives and makes our relationships tragically set up to fail.

What it means to normalize abuse as a black woman

Normalizing abuse is what often happens when you exist in racist, misogynistic American society as a black woman. I have been sexualized and degraded ever since the age of 11 when I became a part of the statistic that 60 percent of black girls are sexually assaulted before the age of 18. I have never known stability because my family had to constantly move in search of a home after being priced out of neighborhoods in Florida, New Jersey, and New York by gentrification. My mother had to work three jobs just to make ends meet, like countless black single mothers do, and I pretty much raised myself. I never had the chance to celebrate honor rolls, dean’s lists, or professional successes because they felt so small next to giant stacks of unpaid bills and obligations that can barely be met.

Black women face the highest rates of domestic violence and intimate partner violence compared to any other demographic. We are also the most likely to suffer serious injury or die at the hands of our partners. A 2003 study analyzed the prevalence of domestic violence in the black community and found intimate partner violence in black relationships is not only more common, but also more violent than among white couples. The University of Maryland and Indiana University researchers explained that “the anger, hatred, and frustrations of African American men, caused by institutional racism, are being displaced onto their wives and lovers.”

A woman’s profiled silhouette.

As a black woman, I’ve spent my life battling both covert and overt racism and misogyny, a wretched combination, inside and outside of my own home. Sometimes I believe it is this perfect-storm combination that makes me an easy target for abusive relationships. 

Abuse doesn’t have to ever be “okay” for it to be normal. It just has to be a fact of life. 

Abuse was a fact of life for my kids’ father as well. His parents used corporal punishment as a form of discipline as long as he could remember. They beat him with belts, belt buckles, tree branches, and wires. They made him kneel on graters for hours at a time. And while studies have found that black parents are twice as likely as white parents to use corporal punishment, they also highlight the truth that this is a practice adopted from white Europeans during slavery.

In other words, slavery is not “just in the past.” What black people adopted as a result of enslavement continues to haunt us and torment our physical and psychological well-being beginning in childhood and well into adulthood.

Reparations are about righting cycles of oppression

My kids’ father was raised in the poor, urban part of Jersey City where violence was the norm — an area “ghettoized’ by discriminatory New Jersey banking policies that made it practically impossible for minorities to get loans for “good” (i.e. white) neighborhoods. For his Haitian immigrant parents, purchasing an affordable home was their taste of “The American Dream.” They left their homeland — a country forced to pay the modern equivalent of $21 billion in reparations in 1825 to former French slave owners after Haitians won their freedom from the colonial power, consequently making it the poorest nation in the Western hemisphere — just to realize that dream. For their son, who had to navigate the trauma of living in the “hood,” like getting stopped and frisked by police since grade school and getting jumped over false accusations, it was more of a nightmare. He learned to always be suspicious and on edge.

“Anyone can just flip on you,” he used to explain about growing up never knowing the difference between friends and enemies. 

I witnessed it myself. About two years ago, a friend of his showed up at our home threatening him with a gun. He was angry because his car got repossessed while my partner was holding onto it for him while he visited family for two weeks.

“You let them take my car!” the friend screamed, even though he had not paid his car note in months.

I don’t know why his friend couldn’t make the payments, but I do know that black men are the most likely to be unemployed, underemployed, or deemed unemployable “convicts.” I also know how hard it is to take personal responsibility for your own circumstances when they always feel so outside of your control. I know his anger was misdirected and may seem illogical, but it likely has a valid source.

Black people have been dominated and oppressed by white supremacy that constantly evolves and becomes more clandestine over the centuries. From slavery, Black Codes, Jim Crow, CIA and FBI attacks on Civil Rights era leaders, redlining, the school-to-prison pipeline, health care inequality, employment discrimination, mass incarceration, lead poisoning our water systems, and police violence, we often forget that it is these unknown destructive forces in our lives that should be the source of our scorn. It is no surprise that we sometimes take out our anger on one another.

For black people, the call for reparations begins with the desire for white people to grapple with the atrocity of slavery. Can white people imagine how truly infuriating it is to know the only people who received reparations when slavery came to an end were white slave owners? Like slave-holding French colonizers, American slave owners received $300 per freed slave after Abraham Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation in 1862. And yet, Americans readily dismiss the country’s need to atone for its original sin.

But the need for reparations, just like the white history of oppressing and discriminating against black people, does not end there. Many scholars argue that reparations are the only remedy to address the substantial black/white wealth gap that no education, job, or income will ever close. For millions of black people living in poverty, reparations may be the only way to ensure the affordability of proper mental health services. Or the only way the segregated school system, in which zip code and property taxes often correlate with educational opportunity, can finally give black children access to high-quality learning. For those in redlined “ghettos” or those with subprime mortgages that are disproportionately dealt out to people of color, reparations may finally give them access to homeownership in good neighborhoods, or they may finally be able to afford to build, maintain, and protect their own.

America will remain separate and very unequal if there is no commitment to addressing its racist abuse. Families like mine will continue to be torn apart by deep-seated trauma because we lack the resources to do anything about it. We need to heal from centuries of trauma. We need to rebuild our communities and mend our relationships with one another. We cannot do so while buried in debts and hardship.

There is only so much work I can do alone

“Abuse is a choice,” my therapist often reiterates.

That has been the hardest fact for me to confront: that abuse is knowingly and intentionally inflicted. For a long time, I allowed myself to believe my partner was “out of it” when behaving the way that he was, a lie I told myself to explain why a man who claimed he loved me could treat me the way he did. I battled with the same cognitive dissonance for all of my life over my relationship with America.

“If only I work harder,” I told myself.

I tried to work harder. Per the suggestion of our counselors, we attended individual therapy once a week and couples therapy once a month. Things seemed to be looking up — until we received the first bill. We were shocked that, despite the fact that we both had insurance, the co-pays amounted to $400 a month. For a new family already buried in student loans and struggling to find affordable housing, paying that amount was unsustainable. After a few months, we stopped going. And the relationship, like my relationship with the country, remained abusive and one-sided. 

But I hold out a little bit of hope. My kids’ father has agreed to seek therapy again. Meanwhile, talk of reparations has come up in the 2020 presidential campaign. Most Democratic candidates, at the very least, agree that the government should move forward with Rep. Sheila Jackson Lee’s H.R. 40 bill put forth to establish a commission to study slavery and the oppressive discriminatory practices that followed, to begin to find a solution. Maybe America is finally ready, like my partner, to take the first step on the long journey to righting its wrongs against people who share my hue.

In the next couple of years, two of the most important relationships in my life will either move forward — strengthened by true reconciliation, where amends are made — or wither away, leaving behind a damaging continued legacy of abuse and hurt. 

I am a black woman who is tired of unkept promises: from lovers, from bosses, from political candidates, from society as a whole. I am ready for my abusers to make good on their promises of “change.” Because I can’t live like this. And I refuse to blame myself any longer. 

Tiffanie Drayton is a freelance writer who proudly shares the beauties and hardships of being a black woman. Find her on Twitter @draytontiffanie.

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