This child is moved to tears from being shown kindness by a cop. That means that this boy did not expect to be shown this simple kindness by someone that has sworn to protect and serve him. Someone that he is supposed to trust.
No matter how peaceful, humanitarian and tolerant you are, no matter how well-meaning and honourable your goals – if you ask for a new government law, program or plan, ultimately that program will be paid for with the property taken by force from others and the law will be enforced at the point of a gun.
There’s a storm coming, Mr. Wayne"
Is not a line written for a movie,
It is written for those broken and battered souls going against a war on terrorism, a war on racism
Gassing souls of the innocent because of the color of their skin
Tell me, when did extra melanin determine if you were human or not?
We all have graveyards growing inside of us,
but that poor girl you maced, those rubber bullets scraping against a young family’s skin and the police brutality being used for reaping the innocent, made a cemetery grow within their bones.
Don’t you dare tell me racism isn’t alive and well
Don’t you dare tell me these people in swat team armor hiding behind masks and guns aren’t cowards
Don’t you dare tell me the innocent souls being reaped from this earth deserve it,
don’t you dare say light skinned people are the real ones getting attacked
open your eyes
and realize if you think what’s happening is a gift from God,
I’ll be standing there, fighting those pigs, supporting the rebels
Last December, in Chicago, I took the elevator down from teaching a class to find the lobby full of students anxiously staring out the window. I walked forward to leave, and the security guard grabbed me by the arm. She was an elderly black woman, and it was the first time I’d seen her working security in that building. But she still looked at me with a kind of intimacy as she begged me, “Please don’t go out there, they’re protesting out there.” I apologized to her - I felt like I was betraying her as I stepped outside. She kept all the black students safely inside. I didn’t stop to ask her whom she she feared more – the protestors or the police – because her answer seemed obvious…
This week, in downtown Los Angeles, I came upon another protest. The participants were mainly black and Hispanic. Most carried a cardboard sign in the shape of a coffin with the name of someone who had been killed in officer-involved violence. Most heart-breaking were two, very young girls carrying signs that said “Justice for my Daddy.” The police calmly cleared the way for the protesters to continue down the street, some nodding along to the drum beat, passersby watched, some joined in the chanting…and not a single person asked why they were protesting.
I’ve been thinking back to that December night in Chicago, when I was too shocked to answer the guy who asked, “What’s the point of this?” But I have an answer now: The protest I saw five months later in Los Angeles. That was the point.