Coming Home

by Brittney Griner

We earn about 250 times less than NBA players and have a hard cap on our salaries. In the WNBA that year I made around $220,000. Overseas, I earned a million plus. That pay gap is why I was in Russia in the first place.

If I’d reached for my ID and he’d assumed it was a gun, that encounter might’ve ended in bloodshed. Some might call that an exaggeration. I call it Breathing While Black. You don’t have to be speeding, as I was. If you’re a brother in particular, and a person of color in general, what you look like makes you vulnerable. That’s not an overstatement. It’s a truth that’s been proven over and over, with one heartbreaking headline after the next. In the Russian prison system, I was marked for a different reason. In a nation long at odds with my homeland and the West, I was, to their disgust, an American.

If you have nothing else in this life, you have your good name, your rep. My father’s name stands for pride. Respect. Showing up early and staying late. Dad didn’t do everything perfectly. Nobody does. But he carried himself with dignity. And thanks to him, the Griner name had never been tarnished. That was why when I wrote “Hey Pops” on that paper, I couldn’t continue at first. How do you explain to your hero that you’ve let him down? You don’t. Instead, you lie there at sunrise and quietly weep, hoping the news never breaks.

Article 229.1, anyone caught carrying any amount of drugs could be charged. In Russia, that article was legit and led to a 99.9 percent conviction rate. That’s not justice; that’s tyranny.

And then came February 24. Exactly one week after a dog sniffed my suitcase, Russia invaded Ukraine. Millions looked on in dismay and confusion as troops stormed across the border. Putin called it a “military operation” to “denazify” its sovereign neighbor. The West called it a declaration of war. Putin warned America, Europe, and NATO not to assist Ukraine. If they did, he threatened consequences. As the world teetered toward global crisis, I sat alone in a personal one. The invasion changed everything for me. Suddenly, my arrest wasn’t just an arrest, and I wasn’t just another prisoner. I was a possible chess piece in a showdown between superpowers. The timing of my episode couldn’t have been worse. The stakes had just been raised.

Sometimes loving a person means telling them everything. Other times it means leaving them with hope.

Blackness doesn’t make you less, but it does frame your life. When you walk into a room, so does race. Frankly, it shows up before you do. It colors every conversation, shapes how you’re viewed, determines whether you’re even heard. From the day you get here, Blackness hangs over everything, from comments about your hair (“Can I touch it?”) to mentions that certain Black people are “smart” (’cause it’s assumed we’re idiots). The message comes through loud and clear: You’re not one of us, you’re less. Black lives matter. We hear that in the streets, but what is a Black life really worth? Judging by our history, it seems not much, and even less if you’re gay.

When you’re Black, your behavior is never just about you. It’s about your entire community.

When you’re born in a body like mine, a part of you dies every day, with every mean comment and lingering stare. You’re the biggest person in the room, but you’re also the loneliest.

You can withstand just about any shame so long as your tribe stands with you.

As appreciative as I was for all the good news, I couldn’t truly take it in after hours of gut-wrenching testimony. I shifted constantly between gratitude and grief, hope and despair, three men consumed by flames and God showing up to save them.

Because this man half-assed his job, my full ass was on the line.

That gave the prosecutor time to ask for another photo. “Don’t smile on this one,” he said as he leaned in and snapped. I smiled even wider.

My kneeling was a sign of just how much I love our country. My ancestors helped build this nation. My father spent his career defending it. I take pride in being American, especially after being imprisoned in a country where public dissent can get you killed. Here, freedom of speech is our right. Exercising that right makes me more of an American, not less. Sit. Stand. Kneel. Protest. The beauty of our homeland is that we have a choice.

After my isolation in Russia, I’ll never take a hug for granted.

What I have is a hope that we can be gentler with one another, that we can imagine how it feels not to fit.

That’s what unnecessary friction does: replaces the pleasure that might have been. Instead of sharing a laugh, you’re rolling your eyes and stoking tension. I recalled when we recently bought furniture for our new place. Totally different experience. I gave no opinion on the throw pillow colors, the style of the couches, the height of the lamps. Relle was in her bliss choosing what she wanted, and I was in my bliss watching her enjoy it. These days I settle disagreements quickly. I served a lot less time than I feared I would. I plan to make my extra time joyful.

Love has no borders, light has no boundaries. Let’s all share more of both.