Thumbprints 'bout to ink up

I haven’t watched the whole 9 minute video of George Floyd being murdered. I don’t intend to ever watch the whole thing. I saw clips last May, and since then, I think like all people of color in America, my mind is already full of images that don’t make sense. I cannot say that I bear a large burden of being Black in America, especially compared to some, who have been dealt the hardest hand possible. But I do see what that burden does to others, and I have my own images resonating in my mind and memories that are enough motivation to know that something is not right, and this fight must still continue.

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This week, most of the country breathed a sigh of relief when Derek Chauvin was convicted of killing George Floyd. A man killed another man and now must face punishment. It’s a story as old as Cain and Abel, but it continues generation after generation. I sit hear writing this on a night where there’s work I could/should be doing. The night before a work performance review, before the next batch of product features to define, but really, a night just like any other.

But for me, and I’m sure many other Black Americans, this week on top of other weeks and names and stories and news blurbs and phone alerts and carefully worded texts and posts and reactions have all blurred into a swirling mass of indignation, hesitant relief, and personal experiences that are hard to explain.

My mind kept going back to the own questionable incidents I’ve witnessed. In the scheme of violence, of racism, of certain inequity, these are all inconsequential events. But they happened, and versions of them happen every day in different ways. And it’s these events and others like them in many more severe degrees that make Black people wonder that one conviction is good, but it seems like so little so late.

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In sixth grade, my social studies teacher wheeled in a TV on a cart (yes I’m old, and what did we ever did before YouTube?) so that she could flip on the OJ trial during breaks in the day. And - oh, what the heck - on the day of OJ’s verdict, we just paused class so she could see the ruling in real time. When the judge read out “not guilty”, she literally pounded on her desk, and exclaimed “what?! how could they?” or something to that effect. The only black kid in the room, I had a vague idea of what was going on, but looking back… oh man, there are so many things wrong with the situation. Were the racial implications of the trial explained to our class? No. Did our teacher really think it was appropriate to interrupt class to watch TV during the day? The historical importance was there, but her reaction would have made people in the same situation today incredibly uncomfortable. It was my first memorable impression of criminal justice(?), and what I remember is that most white people were angry and the black people I knew seemed happy. The situation on its face didn’t make sense.

In eleventh grade, a loyal band geek and studious student, I was walking with my trumpet case on my back to my bank close to our town library. On the way there, I realized I forgot my deposit slip (yes I’m old, we’ve been over this) and I stopped, turned around, and walked to the library. I didn’t realize or register that a little beyond the library was a synagogue. About a half hour later, sitting at a desk in the library, two police officers walked up to me and asked what I had been doing. I nervously pointed to my physics book. Not really satisfied, they asked where I had been walking. I told them I had walked toward the bank then turned around before I got there. I later found out that this event, a week or so past September 11th, the police were investigating a threat on a synagogue and they were questioning me to that effect. They searched my bag, and eventually my Mom arrived, absolutely livid at the situation. Her (justified) reaction is an entirely separate story for another day. I thought it would be a terrible plan for a brown kid to walk in broad daylight to commit any sort of crime, but they were investigating, so… ? The situation on its face didn’t make sense.

Sophomore year of college I got the opportunity to go to France as part of a study abroad trip. During the trip, I achieved my highest level of French proficiency I have ever had (and promptly lost it upon returning). Also during the trip, I walked into a small grocery story to get a student’s savings-sized portion of food (some bread… and jambon if the centimes allowed). At some point while I was in the store, I checked my bag to see if I had a spoon so I could get yogurt. I opened my bag, saw the spoon, closed it. Picked up items to buy, and headed to the register. I of course had forgotten the lesson my Mom instilled at a very young age - if you have a backpack or bag on you, leave it at the front of the store when you enter. That way the store won’t suspect you of robbing the store. I don’t know when this was imparted to me, but I also had the lesson of - never let your passport out of your sight in a foreign country - battling for my attention. At the register, someone from the store pulled me aside and asked to search my bag. The situation on its face didn’t make sense. After some broken Frenglish explanations, I was allowed to purchase my items and leave.

Junior year of college, I was back in my home town (the place of the ill-timed TV viewing teacher) and we had a relative visiting. She was Black and southern and friendly and probably bored out of her mind in our sleepy town. So we went for a walk in the neighborhood. It was a clear, bright, summer day. At some point, a police car pulled up, and just asked where we were headed. “We are taking a walk,” I said. The officer said OK. (OK?) He pulled away. The situation on its face didn’t make sense.

My first year of working after grad school, I was sitting in a parking lot waiting for it to get late enough for our indoor soccer game to finally start. It was outside of a Barnes & Borders or whatever those giant bookstores in those things called malls used to be called. I admit it was sketchy just to sit there, but I could either drive half an hour back to my apartment or wait for 45 minutes and then head to the soccer game. The bookstore was closing, I didn’t want to seem like I was loitering, so I figured the warmth of my car would be just as good. I closed my eyes for a few minutes and was woken up by bright lights and an officer knocking on my windshield. I rolled down the window, and explained my situation. He asked me to get out of the car, explaining someone had called the police and asked to look in my trunk. I complied because I was confused by the whole situation and registered the other policeman and police car not too far away. They were doing their job. They didn’t find anything of interest in my trunk, and said I was OK to go. OK to exist in my car? The situation on its face didn’t make sense.

I write all these things to say… was I doing something out of the ordinary? Did my skin color have anything to do with the reactions or occurrences of these memories? Maybe yes, maybe no. Do other people find themselves in strange situations that they can’t explain? Walking down the street with some candy at night, using a bill they should have checked more closely, going for a run in a new neighborhood, arguing with a friend. Absolutely. None of my own situations went the “wrong” way. I introduced them framed by my admittedly very privileged life that my parents struggled to provide me an my brother that focused on safety, security, education and having choices. My interactions with the justice system on a personal level have been pleasant enough, but I listen to white friends’ explanations of talking back to officers and arguing out of tickets with incredulousness. Why would you make the interaction with the law take any longer than it needs to? Why would you ever do anything just to prove a point? These are my non-confrontational-nature questions I ask myself.

This has been a remarkable week for convicting George Floyd’s killer. And then three other police shootings made national news. The situation on its face didn’t make sense. It’s a victory, but we can still do better.

I share these stories because they are a tiny fraction of what other Black people have experienced, and every news story that comes out makes whatever true or false impressions of these memories raise even more questions. So… if you didn’t see a blatant celebratory post from someone you expected it from this week, well… they’re still trying to figure out what it all means. So am I.

(Note: The opening lyrics are from the song “Elevate” which is the framework for my posts from 2019 onward. Click back a few posts for more context. I chose to compare George Floyd’s image to Bishop, a time traveler from X-Men, because even from 2050, Bishop could come back to now, see an act of racial violence and be like… yeah, I get it. Still happening.)