I consciously checked out of the George Zimmerman trial
coverage partly because my energy had to be focused in other directions, and
mainly, because I could see where all of this was headed.
I’m not so out of touch with the reality of being Black in America that I
believed a guilty verdict to be a foregone conclusion and I’m acquainted
well-enough with history to have believed that an acquittal was more than a
fair bet. I’m old enough to remember Simi Valley; the wounds are still fresh
from Amadou Diallo, Abner Louima, Oscar Grant, Danroy Henry and countless
others whose lives and legacies passed through moods and moments of activism
then anger.
I remember sitting next to Baruti Kafele as three detectives
charged with manslaughter and other crimes were acquitted in the death of Sean
Bell. We were surrounded by the precious cargo of a few hundred teenage boys
and the weight of responsibility shifted to burden briefly in those minutes. I
recall black shirts in honor of the Jena Six and hoodies for Trayvon, but no movement
to rail against an educational system that spins our children through cycles of
standardized tests and sub-standard expectations for success. There are
multiple murders in Chicago, Philadelphia, Newark, Richmond, California and all
points in between but the outrage lost its will and voice long before I introduced myself to the world.
My generation has existed in a sort of “in-between”; bastardized
by the Civil Rights and Black Power movements, because as the fruit of their
tireless labor, we disconnected from the mission and embraced the theme from “The
Jeffersons” until a Black man landed in the White House. For many, that was our
arrival; a post-racial America that finally embraced itself as a melting pot of
cultures and ideas, a progressive nation whose ugly history was just that, a
history too ugly to be accurately portrayed or continue to show itself in the
face of such “progress”.
We live daily with the harsh reminders of divisions in race,
class, gender and sexuality, whether we choose to ignore them or believe today
is going to be the day that things change is based on the supposition that
things have changed. My comfort level with being Black in America was reached
long before my Physics class erupted in cheers when O.J. Simpson was acquitted
and my relationship with that fact was not skewed by the events of November 4th,
2008 and November 6, 2012. In fact, my position on my standing in this country
was only reinforced by the reaction of so-called Americans as President Obama
made his ascension to the White House.
So what’s next? Al Sharpton and the like will crusade for a
little while to keep the fires stoked, some of us will try to find showings of Fruitvale Station, but the anger will
recede and Facebook profile pictures and statuses will return to business ad nauseam.
Too few of the many will try to retain the spirit of this weekend until they
tire in the face of apathy and the ubiquitous question of turn down for what? I
woke up this morning and there were no major cities burning, an NAACP petition
(and possible appeal to the Department of Justice to pick up the case), loose
talk of a Florida boycott (like Negroes could ever boycott South Beach) and
rumors of President Obama filing charges. It took less than a few minutes to
realize that our moods pass through moments and the disconnection within our
community doesn’t allow for the consistency for movements to last longer than
mere minutes.
These are tenuous times around the globe; there are
movements around the world built from the frustrations of the people who have
banded together to be the change they want their governments to reflect. In
these moments, we often lip profess, and wait. We wait for someone to lead; we wait
for some one thing to change. We wait and wait and wait until…we’re back in this
position again, feeling connected to something greater, something beyond our
capacity for understanding. Yeah, that sounds about right. We’ll reconvene
again in a few months or a few years, pointing fingers, stepping towards our
platforms to put words together that mean nothing once they leave our mouths
and fingertips if we haven’t backed them with the necessary action to define
them.
I remember Emmitt Till.
Murdered for being a young Black boy in a time when being a young Black boy was
enough to get you killed and your murderers acquitted like it was part of
everyday life. I will remember Trayvon Martin. Murdered for being a young Black
boy in a time when being a young Black boy is enough to aspire to be president
and your murderer is acquitted because fear is a part of everyday life.
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