“What do you mean, ‘missing?’”
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In the last year, more than a third of the 600,000 Americans reported missing were Black. To be Black and missing is a relatively common American phenomenon. In 2023, it was my family’s turn.
When my cousin, Courtney, called that fateful day in July, my brain struggled to process what she was saying. I’ve never had someone in my life go missing, but according to Courtney, our cousin Imani Serafina Roberson hadn’t been seen since Sunday. It was Thursday. My first thought: “She must be dead.”
I suddenly found myself immersed in a state of uncertainty that was very much not my choosing, but is a very common state for people of color, Black people in particular. Uncertainty in America is a frequent state of existence for us because we are categorically less safe. Lack of safety simply makes us more vulnerable to the worst things that can happen in life. Black Americans are twice as likely as white Americans to die from gun violence. Black women experience sexual assault at a disproportionate rate, and one in five Black women is a survivor of rape. Black people in America are three times as likely to be killed by police, and when they are, they are often forced to prove their humanity posthumously. Their cases are rarely treated with dignity or care. As a community, we aren’t even safe when we attempt to access medical care. From the treatment of pain, to emergency medicine, to maternal health, we are more likely to suffer and die because of the impact of systemic and interpersonal racism on our health care system. A 2016 study of medical students even found that 73% of students incorrectly believed that Black people have a higher pain tolerance than white people.
We are often called to manage dizzying states of uncertainty and unease, so I know from experience focusing on the practical, on the things I could control: calling my aunt to provide emotional support, sending treats for my cousin’s kids, and regularly reminding everyone to eat and rest. The things you do when people you love are struggling. But a few days later, it became clear that was not enough.
While investigators appeared responsive to my aunt’s case, we feared they were not moving quickly enough or doing enough. If you’re Black in America, police involvement raises suspicion, and at times fear, and there is pain in that. My cousin had been missing for almost two weeks, the sheriff hadn’t yet met with my aunt, and no one had been charged with her killing, even though we knew evidence existed (a neighbor’s doorbell camera) that made plain what happened. We needed to find my cousin to give my aunt a sense of peace. If our worst fears were confirmed, Imani would be her fourth child to die. I got involved to ensure my aunt got the answers she needed and deserved.
I am a seasoned political and business strategist who generally knows how to get shit done and who to call when things fall apart. It was time for me to leverage that power for my family.
I got to work, and over the next three days, with the help of friends, mentors, and colleagues, my family and I developed a media and public engagement strategy designed to engage the general public in the search for Imani. We built a website, created a GoFundMe, organized a press conference, secured major media interviews, and finally met with the sheriff. Within 48 hours, my cousin’s story was in front of millions of people. Five days later, and 20 days since she went missing, her body was found. As we suspected, she had been killed, and her husband and his brother have since been charged.
It is important for you to understand that what happened to my cousin is neither exceptional nor uncommon. What is exceptional about her story is that she was actually found. When Black women go missing, they are almost never recovered. In our case, I know that Imani was found in part because she was my cousin. My access and platform, my proximity to whiteness and power, are what helped us find Imani. None of those things should be requisites when someone you love goes missing or is killed.
We know that pain and uncertainty come for all of us, but statistically, they come for Black people and those in other marginalized groups more frequently. When uncertainty, pain, or violence come for you, you shouldn’t have to rely on access and proximity to power to navigate it. As we collectively sit in this space of worsening global instability and rising fascism in America, we need to do more to ensure that those who are often called to navigate the pain of violence and uncertainty have meaningful access to the resources, assistance, and support they need when the worst thing happens to them or someone they love. As we continue to watch ICE round up US citizens and veterans and even shoot white women in the face in broad daylight, it is critical that those of us who do have power and access show up en masse for those who do not.
That is how we build a more equitable future for all of us.
Marisa Renee Lee is a called-upon expert in navigating uncertainty and grief. She is an advocate, writer, speaker, and social impact entrepreneur. She is the author of the forthcoming Waiting for Dawn: Living with Uncertainty, as well as the award-winning bestseller, Grief is Love: Living with Loss, CEO of Beacon Advisors, and a former appointee in the Obama White House. She lives in New York with her husband Matthew and son Bennett.
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