Tag: Black Lives Matter

What to the Black Mother is the 4th of July?

Celebrating this country’s birthday feels like walking behind the casket in a New Orleans second-line procession.

On this day in which so many neighbors shoot fireworks, parents dress their children in the colors of freedom, and the nation indulges in its most conspicuous patriotism that heralds the United States of America as a beacon on a hill, I gnash my teeth along with so many Black mothers, that even in 2023, our lives are seen as expendable and our children as less than human. In this land wrested from the indigenous peoples and gifted to those claiming Manifest Destiny, life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness remain an elusive aspiration for those on the losing end of white privilege and anti-Blackness.

Today, the words of civil rights and women’s rights activist Fannie Lou Hamer echo in my head, “Nobody’s free until everybody’s free,” as I meditate upon depraved indifference to Black lives buried deep in the marrow of this country. The murder of Ajike “AJ” Owens, the 35-year-old mother of four young children barely a month ago in Ocala, Florida is but one recent example. Sister Ajike was shot in cold blood by her neighbor Susan Lorincz for being a black mother called, once again, to run interference between the vile tongue and hands that would seek to do violence to the bodies and spirits of her babies. Our babies. We know the specifics of Ajike’s story and the universal truth within that experience: a fellow human being decided to sink to their most despicable instincts because they could, treating our children worse than they’d ever treat an orphaned dog. So many of us know the tiring drill of defending our children from racists when all we want to do is love on them and live our lives. On June 2nd, Ajike’s murderer robbed Ajike of her life and stole her out of the lives of her children. And in the four long days that followed this wanton act and preceded her arrest, she peddled the lie that she felt threatened, knowing it held more weight than the truth of her depraved and racist indifference to Ajike’s inherent human value.

A month before Ajike’s senseless murder, the world became aware of the untimely and tragic loss of Olympic medalist and world champion sprinter Tori Bowie, who passed away at the age of 32 years old, seemingly due to the pregnancy complication of preeclampsia in her eighth month. Sister Tori’s heartbreaking loss is but one in a long line of Black pregnant women–including prominent elite athletes Serena Williams and Allyson Felix–who have experienced a life-threatening pregnancy-induced illness. Unfortunately, Tori did not live to tell her story. Indeed, as the maternal mortality rate among African American women continues to trend upward, this alarming story of fatal and near-fatal maternal illness for black mothers isn’t ringing enough alarm bells. (Tori’s loss clawed at my heart in a personal way. I was 32 when my own first pregnancy required an emergency c-section because of my life-threatening battle with HELLP Syndrome at 24 weeks pregnant. My daughter, Grace, born weighing only a pound, passed away after a heart-wrenching four-day battle.)

Oh, to be a black mother.

Like other mothers, I have bandaged scrapes, dried tears, explained math problems, made dollars stretch, served as chauffer to my kids and their friends, retrieved errant soccer balls from the street or a neighbor’s yard, salvaged unsuccessful meals, weathered teen angst, and bought last-minute snacks for the school potluck. But as a black mother, I’ve also written strongly worded emails to school administrators about foolhardy school policies that trained brown-skinned kindergarten boys to walk around with their hands shoved deep into their pants pockets, teachers who casually called 2nd graders ‘little monkeys’ or counseled middle or high schoolers to replace the n-word in required texts with the word ‘friend,’ and the adultification of black girls which leads many to think that assaults on black girls’ bodies are the consequence of their ‘womanly wiles.’

Just yesterday, the eve of this holiday, my family had occasion to visit the plot of land at Thomas Jefferson’s Monticello plantation curiously named “Burial Ground for Enslaved People.” As I pondered the juxtaposition of this plot of unmarked graves so close to the grandeur of the residence for our country’s third president and author of the Declaration of Independence, I was pained by the historic example of disrespect Jefferson showed for the more than 600 people he compelled to serve him. Only stones and the advocacy of descendants of the enslaved forced the plot to be recognized as a burial ground at all. And though some names of enslaved people are sprinkled onto placards in the Monticello Museum, visitors can easily ignore the inconvenient history of slavery and the dehumanizing treatment of human beings by Thomas Jefferson and his fellow ‘founding fathers’.

As I think about the many families that will seek the perfect perch from which to view tonight’s fireworks in towns and cities across the country, I lament how the mundane stuff of child-rearing always requires the black mother to stand ready to defend her children’s humanity. I recall the mother at the Brooklyn Aquarium who intentionally rammed my two-year-old daughter’s legs with her toddler daughter’s stroller so her child could be first in line to pet a starfish, causing my daughter to fall and sustain a nasty gash. (Thirteen years later, she still has the jagged scar on her leg.) I recall the terse retort I had to conjure when a young woman asked my then nine-year-old son what he was “in for” when he and I stopped by our local police precinct to pick up a temporary parking pass for a dear friend who would soon need it for an upcoming visit. Whether a microaggression or a flagrant assault, these injuries inflicted on our children’s psyches are designed to diminish them and us as their first and fiercest protectors.

Celebrating this country’s birthday feels like walking behind the casket in a New Orleans second-line procession. The music blares and our bodies move, but our hearts are pierced through with loss. I grieve for my fellow mamas who mourn children lost to gun violence and childbirth casualties. I grieve the children who mourn mothers gone too soon, like Ajike Owens. And I grieve the countless Black mothers claimed by COVID, domestic abuse, underdiagnosed illness, and the stress of living in a world that sees us as a nuisance if it sees us at all.

Who You Gonna Call?

Do police officers have the will or the skill to deescalate crises when they are called to help?

As a child of the 70s and 80s steeped in the pop culture of the time, I could always be counted on to shout “GHOSTBUSTERS!” in response to the question, “Who you gonna call?” It never got old. At least not for my young teenaged self. And I’m sure many a black and brown person within 10 years of me in either direction could do the same.

We the kids of the post Civil-Rights era, had been taught to embrace a desegregated America and our parents tried to believe that we had overcome the police brutality that they had born witness to on fuzzy black-and-white TV screens and suffered through their own bodies. We grew up with Soul Train, proud Afros, and African-inspired names. Unencumbered by Jim Crow era policies and policing, we were destined for greatness. Our generation, and the generations to follow, would secure the bag and stake our claim to everything that our blood, sweat, tears, and taxes had earned us and our ancestors, too. It was a collective hope, of course. One that we all wanted to believe.

We knew that in our real world, there was no calling of Ghostbusters. But we tried to believe that, though racism still lived in hearts and lurked on street corners, if we handled our business we would surely thrive. And when an emergency came our way, as they sometimes will, we too would be caught by society’s safety net that was just one 911 call away. Like our fellow citizens, we had a backstop for the vagaries of life:

  • if a wild animal had wandered too far from its natural habitat and put our lives or homes in danger
  • if our teenaged child (an inexperienced driver) became disoriented or overwhelmed
  • if our grandmother’s breath was shallow or our uncle seemed to have experienced an overdose
  • if the celebration of our favorite sports team led to late partying and too much to drink
  • if we had been threatened or felt like we were in danger
  • if a loved one or a neighbor were experiencing a mental health emergency

We should call 911, right? I mean, who are you gonna call but the emergency system to help us with our emergency? Even at school we had been instructed on how to place the 911 call and what to say. Speak slowly and clearly into the phone. Give our name and full address. And then, when help arrived, open the door and trust them to help.

Surely this is what 32-year-old Isaiah Brown thought when he sought help to quell a domestic dispute happening with his brother. He called 911 and spoke to the dispatcher who would send the sheriff’s deputy to his Spotsylvania County, Virginia home. In speaking with the 911 dispatcher, he had been forthright; he explained to the person that his brother had a gun but he did not. He wanted help for his brother who was experiencing a crisis. But instead, within seconds of the arrival of the sheriff’s deputy, while Brown was still on the phone with 911, we was told by the deputy to drop the weapon that was by his head–that is, the cordless telephone he was on–and then the deputy shot him at least 10 times. As of this writing, Brown remains in very critical condition at the hospital.

The Muñoz family of Lancaster, Pennsylvania had initially resisted calling 911 as they sought help for their brother, Ricardo Munoz, who suffered with mental illness. They were reluctant to call 911 because of the recent police killing of 27-year-old Walter Wallace Jr. as he had a mental health crisis in Philadelphia just a few weeks before. But they were nevertheless compelled to seek help through that means on a weekend afternoon. Within an hour of that call, their 27-year-old brother was dead, shot by a police officer. The family’s worst fears had been realized.

Columbus, Ohio police were quick to release the bodycam footage documenting an officer’s killing of 16-year-old Ma’Khia Bryant, who was allegedly in a fight with another teen or young woman in front of her foster home and armed with a knife. The reason: they believe it shows the “appropriate” use of deadly force in quelling the teen girl’s aggression toward another. But many of us are critical of this police officer’s use of deadly force against a teen girl. This scenario begs the question: do police officers have the will or the skill to deescalate crises when they are called to help?

For black and brown people, the answer seems almost always to be no.

Crises happen in all segments of society, whether domestic disputes, mental health emergencies, or fights. And in the case of three of the four instances I list above, the person for whom 911 had been called were purported to have been holding knives at the time they were shot and killed. In the minds of some, this would be reason enough to exonerate the police officer who used deadly force and dismiss the maiming or death of the person in question as an unfortunate tragedy. But if we are told to call 911 to seek help for a person in crisis or seemingly out of control, why is it that the black and brown people needing the help are so often maimed or killed?

I could write many more paragraphs documenting the numerous times police officers were called to address a white person’s crisis and managed to deescalate the situation and get that person the help they needed. Whether the help comprised counseling, psychiatric care, addiction treatment, or even police custody, these emergencies didn’t end in the death of the person who needed help. Or any of their loved ones or innocent bystanders. But when black and brown people call for help, we and our loved ones are seen as threats more than anything else. And so cell phones or even knives in the hands of hurting and scared black or brown people don’t trigger an impulse to help but to crush. Crush the threat. Silence the yelling.

Too many police officers who have sworn an oath to protect and serve and who are our country’s first line of defense in crisis intervention view the lives of black and brown people as not worth the effort needed to save us, perhaps from our own emergency. We are expendable. As long as undertrained police officers operate on their own biases, they will continue to compound the traumas that created our emergencies, and subject our brown and black bodies to more violence, including deadly violence. Whatever has brought us or our loved ones to the crisis for which 911 was called will now be used against us to justify ending our lives.

This is why so many call for defunding the police and putting those resources into crisis intervention services that would dispatch trained personnel who can deescalate emergencies and provide appropriate emergency care. This is why so many call for better screening and training of police officers. This is why so many call for the dismantling of the blue wall of silence that favors closing ranks around officers who traumatize black and brown communities with their overreliance on aggressive tactics and deadly force over transparency, accountability, and trust. This is why so many continue to proclaim that our black lives matter!

After all, if we can’t call 911, who are we gonna call?

To Watch a Person Be Killed

I’m a member of a peculiar group. I’ve seen both my parents–whom I love dearly–in the immediate aftermath of their deaths, before the niceties of preparing their bodies for burial. And for my father, I was there when he took his last breath in this life and transitioned into the great hereafter. I will never forget what I saw, what I heard, and what I believe he experienced. Both my father and my mother died peacefully and in relative comfort, to the extent that they could have been comfortable when dying of illness.

So, when I am accosted by the images of black people dying, being killed violently by the police, I am overwhelmed at being a witness to their murders, to their lives being crushed out of them by a police officer’s chokehold or knee or their breath snatched by multiple bullets piercing their flesh and destroying their vital organs. I feel a visceral pain for the victims of these heinous acts of violence, pain for their loved ones who witnessed it in real-time, sometimes with their own clutched cellphone bearing witness to the final moments of their beloved’s life on earth, helpless to do any more. And then that same murder runs on the television as a commercial preview to the news or as a visual introduction to a news story on social media, or even as a meme or the latest #challenge trending on Instagram or Tiktok.

The act of consuming black suffering and death as bloodsport is not new. The people of this country have long participated in the deaths of black people, whether as executioner or witness. The history of lynching is one that has been well documented by the photographer’s lens, capturing the intergenerational crowds of white people who came to picnic at the lynching site. They didn’t have supercomputers in their back pockets as we do now. So they went to see it in person. And not just see it but hear the moans and words of terror that would issue forth from the brutalized victim’s mouth and add their own taunts as a part of the last words that person would hear this side of eternity. To smell the smells that would emanate from a person whose fear at their imminent fate might make body systems malfunction and whose burning body–set ablaze either before or after death–would coat the air with the stench of burning flesh.

I was there, holding my father’s hand and singing him a church hymn when he let go of this life and entered the next. I will never forget the sight and the sounds and the smells. I remember how his countenance changed at the very moment he crossed over. My father died a good death, surrounded by prayers from afar as well as two of the people who loved him the most in the world. I don’t know everything he saw or experienced in that room; I won’t know that until I am at my own moment of transition. But I know that he heard and felt love.

For those who are murdered, this is not so. And for those whose execution is a community event enjoyed at their expense, those final moments must feel especially cruel. What moral depravity lives in the mind and heart of a person who will taunt and jeer and celebrate someone’s murder? But let me come a little closer. How can anyone bear witness to the violent death of a person who is running away from his pursuers or who has already been subdued by her pursuers, or who is outnumbered and outgunned by those who were called ostensibly to protect them from the bad guys without their own naked outrage at the cruel injustice of it? Just offer a #SMH and move on. Or worse yet, conjecture that the execution, which we all just witnessed, must have been warranted for reasons that some unscrupulous person will unearth well after the fact. People will go into overdrive compiling a dossier of the deceased’s most unflattering selfies or questionable posts on social media; will look for any possible “evidence” of previous drug use, alcohol use, an expired license, or a car with some amount of disrepair (missing tail-light, anyone?); or any history of previous brushes with the law, however slight. And then this compilation of so-called offenses will be used as justification for the person’s violent death at the hands of the police or a self-described civilian militia or vigilante self-appointed to investigate and “stand their ground” in the face of anyone they deem to be a threat.

In this, the land of the free and home of the brave, the insistence by a white person or a police officer of feeling threatened has always been enough of a defense to justify the killing of black and brown bodies. The mere existence of a black or brown body taking up space in any activity can be called a threat: driving, sitting in a parked car, talking on a cell phone in a grandparent’s backyard, taking a wrong turn and getting lost, going to the convenience store, napping in a university dorm’s common room, jogging, playing, having a mental health emergency, bird watching, waiting for the bus, selling lemonade, barbecuing with family, sleeping. Any activity that a black person might be engaged in can be labeled a threat by a white person. And even when that “threat” is met with deadly force, a judge and jury can be convinced it was warranted. Why? The common denominator is that it was a black person doing it.

How do we know this? Well, we all know this. This is why a ramshackle assemblage of armed white men can take over government buildings without fear of physical reprisals. It’s why a group of white football fans can throw trashcans, flip cars, vandalize property, physically and verbally assault each other, and break every noise and public nuisance ordinance in Philadelphia in celebration of the Philadelphia Eagles SuperBowl victory and still make it out alive and home to their families that very night. It’s why a white man can attend a bible study at a black church and then laughingly admit to shooting dead nine of the people he just prayed with and the police who arrested him not only manage not to kill the armed and dangerous man when they arrested him but the officers stopped at a fast-food restaurant to buy the murderer a meal since he was hungry.

There is no end to the list of examples of how black people who are just living their lives are called a threat, abused by those who have sworn an oath to protect and serve, and then maimed and killed with impunity. (Even those who live through the ordeal of being body-slammed to the ground for “fitting the description” have physical and emotional scars that can’t heal because they are wounded repeatedly.) Think about all who are forced to witness this brutality and all whose lives have been shattered by those depraved actions.

By contrast, the myriad examples of white people flouting the law and living to tell their stories aren’t even on any list. There’s no list because there have traditionally been few, if any, consequences. This country’s lakes and rivers still are full of the bones of black and brown people whose lives were snatched as bloodsport. The stench of burning flesh still wafts from government-sanctioned execution rooms where black people are killed not because they are guilty but because they are too black and too poor to afford legal counsel that would assure due process under the law. The blood of black women and men still runs in the streets and in police holding cells. The bodies of children are still warehoused in cages with only a concrete floor, a foil blanket, and other crying children surrounding them, but no parents. And too many, too many, watch our black and brown fellow human beings have their lives wrung out of them, their humanity stripped from them with little more than some hand wringing and a sad-faced emoji before they scroll on. The tolerance for black and brown suffering and death continues to be high.

The perverse irony is that this pandemic–itself a disproportionate burden on the black, brown, immigrant, and poor people who are overwhelmingly the essential workers providing the necessities that allow others the privilege of sheltering in place–is the reason why the world couldn’t look away and unsee what it saw when former police officer Derek Chauvin murdered George Floyd with his knee on his neck for nearly nine minutes. Thankfully, as a result, some more people have joined the frontlines of the fight for an end to police violence and the brutalization of black and brown bodies writ large. But think, Mr. Floyd has loved ones who witnessed his final terrible minutes of life, too. Breonna Taylor had a loving partner who watched her body become riddled with bullet holes from police officers who broke into her home as she slept. Philando Castile‘s partner and pre-school daughter watched him be shot to death by a police officer as he sat in the same car with him. Sandra Bland‘s family had to claim her deceased body from the coroner after watching dashcam footage of her brutalization days before she was to begin a new job. I could go on.

Families ripped apart. Communities terrorized. Blackness criminalized. That is, looking phenotypically of African descent–brown skin and coiled hair–just trying to live. Anti-poverty bias and gender so often at the intersection. Seeing brown people as an impediment to white freedom. Freedom to pillage the land–committing genocide upon its first inhabitants in the process–and steal people. Desecrating life that doesn’t service the desires of white people. This started long ago, yes. But it’s not over. When will it be over?