What I’ve Learned (And Been Reminded Of) Over The Past Two Weeks
The Current Black Lives Matter protests haven’t decreased in momentum — and they shouldn’t.
In celebration of the start of Pride Month this past week, I was initially intending on discussing Matthew Lopez’s newest play The Inheritance as an addition to my Intermission series. Upon the unrest following the murder of George Floyd at the hands of the Minnesota Police Department, now does not feel like the time for me to celebrate a work about a dozen rich and middle-class cis white gay men.
Like all of you, I have been experiencing waves of anger, disgust, despair, and the reassurance of power within my voice. I will elaborate on each one of these.
Anger. Of course, anger at our government’s response. Anger towards the police system, a long-corrupted organization seemingly full of incompetence. Anger because I have been aware of such incompetence, but have done nothing to help it, nor destroy and rebuild it. My father was a policeman when I was born, and he kept that job until I was about five years old. I remember the cop car in our driveway, and not being allowed to get in it. I recall him speaking at my school during the time the D.A.R.E. program was abundant. He was its spokesman.
When a new report is released about a black individual dying at the hands of a police officer, I think about my dad. Then, I think about all those people that say “well, my [relative/friend] is one of the good ones.” I don’t know what all my father saw or did in his job. I don’t want to know. I don’t care to hear it. Still, in the back of my mind there has always been that question, “is he one of the good ones?”
The answer, I’ve learned, is simple: there is no good cop when there is no good police system.
That sounds somewhat generalizing. Is every person in law enforcement a terrible human being? No, not necessarily. Is every cop complicit with murder? No, not necessarily.
But, the case of George Floyd’s murder is not unheard of whatsoever. Breonna Taylor’s tragic killing a few weeks prior was a despicable act of ignorance that was seemingly swept under the rug by the media. Of course, we all remember Michael Brown and Trayvon Martin and Antwon Rose and Oscar Grant and Rodney King and the hundreds of thousands of others. We all know that this has been happening for generations. Spike Lee fictionalized it as the climax of his 1989 film Do The Right Thing. Writer Angie Thomas introduced the process of witnessing police brutality and standing up against the system in her 2017 novel The Hate U Give.
This is where disgust comes in. The same way that the public has been aware of unlawful killing by policemen, so have the policemen who have not killed anyone. The chiefs have been aware of it, the US Government and Department of Defense has been aware of it, our Presidents have known about it (Yes, even Obama), and my father has known about it. Nothing has been done to ratify the system. Sure, the murderers are SOMETIMES charged, but the victims are eulogized and maybe a protest ensues and that’s the end of it.
Lawyers spend several years learning and practicing their occupation. It is a rigorous process. Of course! Justice is crucial in this country. But if Justice is a necessity, those that are meant to uphold it, the men in blue suits and shiny badges with their tasers and pepper spray and, most importantly, firearms attached to their belts, are detrimental. Why, pray tell, is it so that a cop spends between merely eight to sixteen weeks in an academy and comes out an officer? Why does the amount of time in said academy vary between states? What are some policemen learning that others aren’t? This seems rather lackadaisical when compared to lawyers, who fight with information and their words.
I feel despair. I will never understand what it means to be black in America. What it must feel like in the year 2020 is assumably close to what it must have felt like fifty years ago in 1970. In my home state of Mississippi, the symbol of the Confederacy still rests on our state flag. On a street not far from my home sits a barn with that same symbol painted across the side of it. It has never made sense to me why my state chooses an image reflecting division in the United States caused by the movement to outlaw the owning of blacks as free labor, yet it is there. What boggles my mind even more, however, is imagining how someone black living in my state must feel having to see that reminder of our disgraceful history every day.
Will the police system change? Can we make a big enough movement to do so? We’ve already cause the largest civil rights movement in history, with all fifty of our states and seventeen additional companies demonstrating for Black Lives Matter. There is an unyielding momentum right now, and we have to keep that force going. We mustn’t yet stop demonstrating.
We have the power.
This past weekend I spent three days outside the city hall of Petal, Mississippi protesting against their Mayor Hal Marx. Marx took to Facebook immediately after George Floyd’s death to express his reaction to the gruesome video of his murder. He stated that there was “no evidence” there to deduce murder, instead suggesting that Floyd “died of a heart attack or possible overdose.”
Those words reflect at least ten different kinds of stupid.
Anyway, hundreds of folks showed up for a peaceful Black Lives Matters demonstration. I must commend Marx for this, though, for the first time in my nineteen years of living his remarks got me off of my flat white ass and into the movement. In the blazing southern heat only intensified by a face mask I stood and shouted with a diverse palate of pissed off citizens. I heard stories from black women of the deaths of their sons and nephews by the police. A white woman tearfully recounted when her mixed daughter said she wished she were white so other kids would play with her on the playground. Chills rattled my spine as a woman sang for George Floyd. All of this was done in the name of social justice. “Resign!”, we cried, “Resign!”
He still hasn't.
Never in my life have I felt more connected to humanity than this weekend. I felt like a part of a greater whole for once. I looked at my fellow human beings and saw their souls in their eyes. I recognized my privilege, and the power that comes within it to raise the voice of those less fortunate than I am.
Keep demonstrating. Keep fighting. Keep kicking and screaming. Keep marching.
Now, a message for my white readers: do the aforementioned, but under no circumstances may you dictate the protest according to your level of comfort.
You are not allowed to feel comfortable right now.
Remember Breonna, the woman who was shot and killed when the police raided her home in a mistaken drug bust (she was not the culprit). Remember the little boy in the park who was shot while holding a toy pistol. Look at the names of at least a few of the black men, women, and non-binary people who lost their lives to law-enforcement. Think of their families. Think of their friends. Think of their own children.
Then think about your comfort.
LGBTQ+ Pride began as a riot led by Marsha P. Johnson, a black transgender woman. Say her name among the others mentioned here.
What I have learned over the past two weeks is that change is possible with the rage and fire of the sun itself backing it; the voice of the people. The people of all fifty of the United States and over twenty other nations around the globe.
All lives don’t matter if black lives don’t. Happy Pride.
If you can, donate to any fundraisers regarding the protests that you can. Of course, check their credibility before you pay.
Here is a link to the Black Lives Matter official website’s donation page: https://secure.actblue.com/donate/ms_blm_homepage_2019
