For all of us, COVID-19 should be another reminder of structural inequities in our society
I am one of the thousands of people who tune into the daily COVID-19 briefings from Governor Andy Beshear of Kentucky. I tune in to hear the latest information about the virus’ devastating impact on our lives. I listen not only for my own good, but for the good of others. I tune in because I know by the end of each briefing, I will be reminded that we will get through this together. It deepens my yearning to care for others and myself. However, as the days have gone on, I am also being reminded not everyone has the same yearning.
I know this is hard for some to hear, but as a Black woman, it is often very difficult to trust the power structures of this country. Many of my years have been spent in the company of deep sorrow and anxiety about what would become of us as a people. I, like many, have pondered what it would take for our institutions to recognize our collective humanity. But as the number of cases rise and deaths continue, I am watching with my own eyes the dark underbelly of this nation reveal itself again.
COVID-19 is disproportionately killing Black people. It’s killing Black people more than any other ethnic group in Kentucky and in other states. There are once again dead Black bodies offering proof of the inequities foundational to these United States. But this fact is deemed uncomfortable and inconvenient. I heard a politician go as far as to chalk it up to physiological differences, having made no effort to examine the impact of racist policies, laws, and social practices. It’s true this virus knows no prejudices. It simply wants to survive and multiply. But COVID-19 is traveling and killing within the widening chasm of this country’s structural lies and the lives those lies destroy.
At the beginning of this harsh invitation, I had hope. As I listened to my governor and saw the response of many other Kentuckians, I felt us hunker down to care for each other. The governor broadened the discussion around the demographic data of this virus. He shared with us the color of death and why. My heart began to swell. I heard him explain the disproportionate number of deaths of Black Kentuckians in the context of inequality and inaccessibility. I started seeing a leader grounded not just in the facts, but in compassion. I could hear this white man in power trying to craft a vision forward that included critical examination of the gaping hole in this country’s foundation. My hope expanded. It was familiar to me. I had the same kind of experience hearing President George W. Bush speak from Ground Zero after 911. But, in an instant, what had brought us together so quickly tore us apart just as fast. In the twinkling of an eye, we became divided as “patriots” and as “haters of freedom.”
Right now, I still find myself willing to hold out hope. I am still leaning into hope during heartache, uncertainty, and disparity. I am holding out hope even as I hear the familiar feverish refrain of “me and mine, but not you.” And in the midst of all of it, I can still hear Governor Beshear’s voice. Somehow, it elevates above the screams about individual rights versus tyranny and the drumbeat of political vitriol. It rises above the clamor because it’s the sound of compassion. We have an invitation to love more, not less. We have been invited to stop and to evolve.
Every day Governor Andy Beshear calls thousands of us toward the color green. We are called to compassion and the promise of renewal. Dr. Martin Luther King once said, “We are not the makers of history. We are made by history.” May this be the history that makes us radically compassionate and finally whole.
Western Kentucky native LeTonia Jones is a social justice entrepreneur and writer in Lexington.
This story was originally published April 20, 2020 at 1:46 PM.