“Another black man was executed by the police last night.”
“I heard – the guy selling CDs.”
“No, another one. in Minnesota.”
Alton Sterling. Philando Castile. The latest two names on a
list that I was going to try to write out here, but I don’t know how to do it
right. How far back should I go? What about all the ones we don’t know about?
I’m a person of color, but few know that by looking, and I
get the attendant privilege that comes with being perceived as white. I once
was driving in downtown Denver with two young black men – a colleague in the CU
admissions office and a student volunteer – when we got pulled over for
nothing. Once the cop ascertained that I was there of my own free will and we
were heading toward a work event, he let us go.
When I moved to the mountains, I knew that I would likely be
forfeiting an opportunity to be the boots on the ground fighting injustice. I
was ready to make that choice; I don’t have the energy or the courage to be
eyeball deep in the battle. I have chosen an easier life; one that I know I’m
outrageously privileged to have access to. If I had gone to law school right
out of college, I would have graduated at 25, and I think it’s likely that I
would have been more involved in direct action. Instead, I have volunteered with
various organizations assisting the movement and I stood with my school for a
Black Lives Matter statement. Small things, but I’m told it’s better than
nothing.
To the people who are doing the work on the ground: the
protestors; the organizers; the civil rights attorneys and criminal defense
attorneys and other lawyers who use their profession in service of the battle: please
know that I admire you. I fantasized about being one of you in another life,
but I ended up choosing a different path. I envy you for the real, meaningful
work that you’re doing. I don’t envy you for how incredibly difficult it is.
To my black friends: I can’t imagine having to endure what
you must. I don’t know how you go outside and manage to live normal lives with
this burden and fear. It feels hollow to say “I stand with you.” I do, though.
I hope I’m not part of the problem at least. Please tell me if I am.
To my friends who are parents of black children, and also to
my friends who have decided not to be parents at all because it’s too dangerous
to bring a black body into this world: I don’t even know what to say to you. I
can’t tell you, “Everything will be OK; it won’t happen to your child; don’t worry.” It won’t, it might, and you should. My
heart breaks for you.
To my friends who are cops: There are only a couple of you,
and I know you had your own reasons for choosing the career you did. But you
can’t be quiet any longer. You can’t continue to exist in what you know is a
corrupt system without speaking out against its worst offenses. You need to
stand together and condemn these executions, you need to be suspicious of any
of your brothers and sisters in blue who refuse to do so, and you need to directly challenge them. You need to make the police department a place that
doesn’t tolerate racism. Existing while black
is not supposed to be more dangerous than being a cop.
I have no idea what to do now. Am I even useful as an ally,
given the limited amount I’m willing to engage? In the milieu of Facebook
commentary, one BLM mover said that any acknowledgment helps, so I hashtagged
and posted this excellent essay from a friend of a friend, and I penned this.
Epilogue: I woke up Friday morning to edit this piece before
publishing it, and I learned about Dallas. More deaths, more gun violence. And
this from a former congressman.
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