I was five months away from becoming a father for the first time when Michael Brown Jr. was shot and killed in Ferguson, Missouri. As chaos erupted and shock waves rippled through the country, I thought about my soon-to-be baby boy and what his future might look like. It was then that a deeply-buried memory rose up to haunt me. When I was 19 years old, I took a summer job selling books door-to-door in a suburban New Jersey neighborhood. As the son of upper-middle-class African and Jamaican immigrants who came to the U.S. when I was 9, I didn’t really identify with the African American experience. So I was surprised when a lot of people wouldn’t open their doors for me and expressed visible fear—sometimes horror—at my presence. Not one to be easily deterred, I kept at it.
“You have two choices,” I remember one of them telling me. “You can either plead guilty, or we’ll find you guilty.”
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Things were going well until that hot summer day when I knocked on the door of a white police officer’s family. After talking with them in their living room for a short while, I was surprised when a police car pulled up, then another one. They said they were looking for a suspect who looked just like me, and that the clothes I was wearing even matched exactly what he was wearing. It all seemed very unlikely. I was confused, but after they arrested me for rape and robbery and took me to the police station, and coached a little girl into pointing at me and saying that I was the one who did it, I began to understand. I was being framed. It was so easy for these powerful white men to gang up on me, a black boy, and nudge me toward a fate that was totally undeserved, and would probably ruin my life.
“You have two choices,” I remember one of them telling me. “You can either plead guilty, or we’ll find you guilty.”
Miraculously, at that moment I remembered something I had seen on television: I was supposed to be allowed a phone call. Another miracle happened when I called my sales company’s lawyer and he actually picked up the phone.
Several months later, thanks to a lot of good legal representation that many black families can’t afford, I was found not guilty. I walked away free, but I was forever changed. I would spend the next two decades struggling with a deep sense of anger. I had learned a painful lesson that so many African American people are forced to learn much earlier in life: that regardless of how I see myself, I will always be seen by some people simply as black, and therefore a threat. To them, my life did not matter.
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People do find hope amidst the pain of racism.
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So as I sat with my pregnant fiancé, watching the news of Michael Brown’s death, I felt like I was being transported into my past. He was just 18 years old, a year younger than I had been when I had my traumatic experience with police. It was a jolting reminder that America was still not a safe place for black boys, or black people in general. Would things ever change? Would my son one day be targeted by police for the color of his skin? I knew I had to do something to help transform the popular narratives of racism and ignorance being played out on the news and in social media with regards to Ferguson and the African American experience in general. The level of injustice and lack of understanding seemed almost hopeless. I knew that if we were ever going to heal, if people were going to have the nerve to keep speaking out, even to go on living, we would have to find hope. So I decided to go looking for hope.
I’m a filmmaker, so I decided to make a movie. It’s called Ferguson Rises, and it’s an exploration of how people find hope amidst the pain of racism. It’s also about how they find liberation and empowerment through personal and political action, and how the boundaries of race really don’t need to divide us as much as we might think they do. It’s part of a larger project of mine called the Hope, Love and Beauty Project, that aims to produce inspiring films and events that bring hope, healing and investment to communities in need around the world. We’re currently in the middle of post-production and fundraising to finish Ferguson Rises. You can check out our trailer and help support us on our Indiegogo page here.
As we forge ahead into an uncertain future, carrying the pain of all those who have lost their lives too soon, it is our challenge as men to help define the values that our children and future generations will carry forward. We can keep perpetuating divisions and endless conflict, or we can create something new. These days, I value action, compassion, honesty, and listening and speaking from the heart. I value hope, love and beauty. I value healing. This is the kind of world I want to help create for my son. And I know that others will agree with me, because beneath our surface differences, we all want a better world for our children.
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Find out more about Ferguson Rises and The Hope Love and Beauty Project here.
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Photos courtesy of author
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So very well stated, sir.
Very much on board with that.
In unity we will find our own strength and power.
Thank you DJ Roukan!