We drive through the neighborhoods of Indianapolis, where we’re from, and my son stays glued to the passenger side window.
He stays like this for a solid 30 minutes while we make the drive.
The music on the car stereo changes to a song he has said, adamantly, he doesn’t like. But he doesn’t reach to change the station. That’s odd, I think to myself. Usually, he’s flipping through channels, and arguing with me, as I annoyingly tell him to stop.
Finally, I ask, “What’s up man? You seem to be thinking about something.”
No reply. A minute or two goes by and I inquire again. “Bro,” I say, cheerfully, “What’s up?”
“Nothing really,” he replies, still not changing the direction of his stare.
“Nothing really, or just nothing?”
“Nothing ….. really.”
His pause before the really is a dead give-away. Something is up. I push harder. “Why don’t you tell me what’s really going on then?” I say, with a soft tone.
“I’m afraid I’m going to get shot … by the police,” he says bluntly. The weight of his sudden words falls on my shoulders like a solid wood yoke being placed over my neck. I suddenly feel his fear, anxiety, and questions.
Before I have a chance to say anything he continues, “They keep shooting black people for no reason. And since I’m black, and a boy, what if they shoot me for no reason?”
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Before I have a chance to say anything he continues, “They keep shooting black people for no reason. And since I’m black, and a boy, what if they shoot me for no reason?”
I open my mouth to attempt to say something encouraging, that will calm his fears and anxiety, but nothing comes out. For once, I can’t blame him. The events of the past 2 weeks, leading up to Charles Kinsey taking a bullet in the leg while complying with police orders has left me daunted, questioning, and confused.
Not too long ago, I would have countered his fears with, “Buddy, don’t worry. Police don’t shoot people because of their race. They only use deadly force when a suspect, white or black, is coming at them with a weapon, pointing a gun at them, or behaving in a way that threatens their safety.” Now … I’m not sure.
Charles Kinsey wasn’t a “suspect.” He wasn’t even close to being one. He was a professional trying to do his job. That job? Taking care of a person with low-functioning autism, who, by the way, was carrying a toy truck. Neither the patient nor Kinsey should have ever been in that position. The position of lying on the ground with their hands in the air. Philando Castile wasn’t a suspect either. He was a man with a broken tail light on his car. A broken tail light! A broken tail light that may have happened when he backed up too closely to a mailbox or another vehicle while pulling out of a driveway. A tail light that may have been busted out by a neighborhood kid playing baseball. Not even close to a crime. Not even in the same universe as a crime. He was reaching for his wallet (as the officer told him to do) when he was shot to death. Shot by an officer who was screaming.
So what if Alton Sterling exchanged words with customers at a convenient store, or argued with responding officers. Who hasn’t had a moment when they argued with a person of authority? It’s at most annoying, but it’s not a crime. Nothing, and I mean NOTHING, constituted his death. At most, maybe (and this is a strong maybe) detainment in front of the convenience store until everything was sorted out. He was unarmed, and compliant.
So … yeah … I can’t blame my son for being afraid. I used to be able to reassure him that, unless he was posing a threat to officers, charging at them with a weapon, or aiming a gun at them he would never be shot. I used to be able to tell him that his color would never be a factor in how the police treat him. I can’t say that anymore. I can’t reassure him, and I’m saddened by that.
In our hometown, just outside of Indianapolis, Indiana, we are blessed with wonderful police officers. They are servants of our community. They are upright men and women who do their job with professionalism and class. I have several friends who wear the badge whom I love dearly. I trust them. My family trusts them. I will forever believe in them. A few months ago when my son did have to receive a visit from police, for his out-of-control behavior, they treated him fairly, and with respect. I wish I could point to their example and tell my son that he would be treated like that everywhere he goes, outside of our city, or outside of our state. But, I can’t.
Until ALL LIVES really do start mattering, I can’t. Until police stop shooting black people who are on the ground, arms extended, showing they’re not a threat, complying with demands to get on the ground, I can’t.
All I can do is encourage and challenge my son to be a person of integrity … a person who lives by unshakable characte r… a person who respects authority, even if authority is in the wrong. I wish I could confidently say, along with my encouragement, that his color wouldn’t play a part in an unspeakable outcome, but I can’t.
Will I ever? I pray so.
Photo—Tony Webster/Flickr
Until ALL LIVES really do start mattering, I can’t. Until police stop shooting black people who are on the ground, arms extended, showing they’re not a threat, complying with demands to get on the ground, I can’t.” Until people start to explain that these by far do not represent the wide majority of police. I wish there was a name for prejudice against police. We cringe when someone clutch their purse when they see a couple of black guys, we cll them racist. why should a white women do such a thing when stats show that those black guys are… Read more »
When good cops don’t do anything about the bad cops, they are bad cops by default. Period.
I wish there was a name for prejudice against workers who tried to get better working conditions and salaries but can’t because of greedy bosses.
Well, wealthy people don’t think that working people live matters the way they pollute the land, air, and water and do wage theft on their employees and then expect the people to subsidies the corporate losses while privatizing the profits.