It took a while for me to watch the video of George Floyd's assassination. I had read countless descriptions, seen the photo stills, and read his last words. But I had actively avoided watching. Call it self-care, if you will. Late one night last week, I was up watching videos of protests on Facebook. A video ended, and the next video that started was a repost of the murder. My gut told me to toss the phone across the damn room. I knew that if I watched, the anger that had mobilized me to write, share, and donate might melt into debilitating sadness. But I watched. Every muscle in my body tensed. Tears burned hot in my eyes. My jaw clenched. My pulse raced. My heart broke. I wanted to run. When it was over, I dropped the phone, and cried until I fell asleep.  "Mama."  "Mama." On the first night of major protests in Atlanta, mayor Keisha Lance Bottoms said, "When I saw the murder of George Floyd, I hurt like a mother would hurt." There was little that s