8 Minutes, 46 Seconds

Eight minutes and forty-six seconds is more than enough time to end a life, particularly if it is done with mercy. Or, at least, without malice. If you don’t have murder in mind or haven’t much of a stomach for it, America holds far faster, far more convenient ways of snuffing someone out than taking knees to necks.

America, land of opportunity that it is.

Eight minutes and forty-six seconds is more than enough time to inflict…discomfort. It’s more than enough time to make someone suffer. For the right people, with the right hands, it’s just the right amount of time to make a person wish for death and then

(wait for it)

Grant it.

It’s enough time for me to wonder why some people hate those who are different from them so much; why such people are so afraid; and why they go into positions of authority in law and in government when America holds so many places where it’s far easier and more convenient to hide.

If I’m efficient, eight minutes and forty-six seconds might give me enough time left over to wonder why the people who prop these people up on these pedestals and hold them there fail to see them for who they are or, at least, hold them accountable for the wicked things they do. I could go on to wonder why no one steps in, why no one helps—

But eight minutes and forty-six seconds isn’t enough time for that.

In eight minutes and forty-six seconds, you can explain it all away. And I can explain how the business of asphyxiation requires one of two things—a high degree of determination or a high degree of negligence. (You don’t even have to be very patient, I mean with the adrenaline rush and all.) In eight minutes and forty-six seconds, I could draw you to the conclusion that more than enough opportunity lies in any number of death-dealing markets for even the barely-qualified. Sworn servants, makers and protectors of the public (or, at least, the law) need not be among them.

But eight minutes and forty-six seconds may not be enough time to convince you to listen.

Hell, eight minutes and forty-six seconds isn’t enough time for me to figure out why people don’t believe us when we say this is our story, that this happened to us, and that these people made it happen. No. And it sure as hell isn’t enough time to convince you it happened—that these people made it happen—simply because they hate some facet of who we are.

There just isn’t enough time, I guess.

Oh yes, I know you believe us now. I know you believe us. For now. You believe us now and for now only because you see yourselves doing these things on the screens in your own hands and in your own homes.

There is no escape.

And even then, you don’t seem to understand. I guess eight minutes and forty-six seconds simply isn’t enough time to let you.

You can replay it, I guess, if you wish. But once seen, you can never unsee it. Once played, you can never be unplayed. Meanwhile, those of us who inhabit different skins and living colors—we who have been telling and retelling you, minding and reminding you every day of our different lives—we live and relive it.

And sometimes we die.

You can remain a bystander, if you wish. But at some point, remaining a bystander transmutes from circumstance to choice.

Uncomfortable, isn’t it? You should try wearing the bullseye sometime. It isn’t as cute as a pussy hat, I’m afraid. “But give him a chance,” they said. Just a chance. For some things, once is all it takes. The ones who hate us don’t exactly want to kill us or even for us to die, you see. They just crave a little asphyxiation, to stop our breathing.

No, I don’t know why.

Eight minutes and forty-six seconds is ample time for that to happen. It is ample time for them to make that happen.

It’s also enough time suffer, to wish you were dead or better: To call your mother, not to let her know you’re safe this time, no, but to wish she had never birthed you. Or, maybe, because the brain goes hazy after eight minutes and forty-six seconds of…things happening, you think by some black magic miracle she can unbirth you.

Life can be funny like that sometimes, I guess.

I guess. I guess, because in eight minutes and forty-six seconds, all one really can do is guess.

It’s not much of a chance. But for some things, one chance is all it takes.

Some lives go on after eight minutes and forty-six seconds. Others do not.

Just don’t hold your breath.

Wrong people, wrong places, wrong times, you know.

I guess.

No, I don’t know why.

Personally, my queer brown ass could use a break from so much guessing.

More than eight minutes and forty-six seconds, if you wish to be exact.

Eight minutes and forty-six seconds. It’s more than enough time to suffer, to wonder, to fear, to guess, to break, to

(wait for it)

Die.

In America, eight minutes and forty-six seconds is more than enough time to do so much. Even without multitasking, you can wonder, suffer, guess, hold your breath, shut your eyes, call your mother, wish, play, replay, and relive… We can live one brief frightened life after the next—each eight minutes and forty-six seconds long—and it would never amount to enough.

I could go on. I could hold my breath. But there isn’t time at all.

Because, in the United States of America, eight minutes and forty-six seconds are up.

And now both you and I—we know.