-WAC III-
Saturday,
July 13, 2013 10:15pm-Georgetown, DC
Bumbling
around Georgetown, my good friend and I find a restaurant still open and
willing to seat us at this late hour. Intent on showing my boy a good time in
my city, I was glad to make good on our desired goal, seafood. After a few
ultra-pleasant exchanges between us and the restaurant staff, Calvin and I wait
in the lobby until we’re summoned to be seated. Heading to the bathroom my eye
catches the t.v.; it’s on CNN. “Oh yeh”, I think, “the Trayvon verdict is
supposed to come out this evening.” I pause. I watch. Silent, lips move, images
flicker, and words trek across the bottom of the screen. Not guilty. “Hmph”, I
shrug, “I’m not surprised.” Acting against my normal impulse, that moment found
me not wanting to wrestle with the implications or pontificate about race. I
just wanted to eat. For that moment, that hour or so of good fellowship, I
didn’t want my world disrupted. I wanted to enjoy good food, good service, and
the company of my good friend. He was oblivious to the ruling at that time and
quite honestly, I didn’t want it to influence the tenor of our conversation.
Tucking it away and content with not bringing it up again until I’d thoroughly
mulled it over, I went on about my
evening.
Not
guilty. Not surprised.
Saturday,
July 13, 11:45pm-U Street Corridor, DC
A ten
minute cab ride uptown finds us at U street. There’s a palpable energy brooding
in the atmosphere. It’s almost electric. I sense it when I step out of the cab.
Not sure if it’s due to the exaggerated number of folks in town for the Delta
convention or if it’s because it’s just another Saturday night in the city,
however, there is a something in the air that I can’t identify which keeps my
eyes glancing around in expectancy. Just then, a group of protestors bustle
down the street. “No justice”, “No peace” they chant. Signs about justice,
Trayvon, and the difference in value of Black and White life make their
appearance among the crew. Still not surprised at what I’m witnessing (it makes
sense to me that people would protest after an unfavorable verdict), I look at
my boy and he’s obviously shocked by the
news, yet he’s also ecstatic that he’s watching something like this unfold. A
lady who works for some radio station comes up to us holding a tape recorder
and asks us for our thoughts on the verdict. Immediately, Calvin starts on a
diatribe about the law being unfair, I hear him say “Black”, and then he kind
of fades out as I start thinking about what I’m going to say when she asks me.
My turn. With my “not surprised and my answer represents all of Black America”
disposition fully intact, I respond as honest as I possibly could at the moment
and say that I’m not surprised. Feeling like the words I was speaking were
ringing hollow, I remarked how I at least hope this will start the conversation
about race and the law in the United States.
I say something about calling for a critical examination of race and the
law, especially as the United States is becoming more racially and ethnically
diverse. The conversation ends, she thanks me for my time, and now I began
processing all that has taken place within the last three hours. The term
“second-class citizen” comes to mind and it sticks. Later on, I tried to
explain to my boys this feeling of second-class citizenship and how situations
like this serve to exacerbate and perpetuate that notion. I talked to them about
that strange place that we as Black folks still occupy. That place where as a
Black person, you hope the law will protect and provide justice, giving
credence to your human existence, yet you also contend with the historical
narrative and constant feeling that the law doesn’t fully protect your interest
as a person.
Not
guilty. Not surprised.
Sunday,
July 14 and Monday, July 15, 2013
Rhetoric.
Noise. Outcry. Numb. Debated with myself if I racialized the issue too much.
Monday finds the door to my office closed the entire day. I try to do work but it is to little avail, as I grapple with existential questions concerning my identity as a Black man.
Monday finds the door to my office closed the entire day. I try to do work but it is to little avail, as I grapple with existential questions concerning my identity as a Black man.
Not
guilty. Not surprised.
Tuesday,
July 16, 2013
As I try
to make sense of this thing, thoughts come to me and I jot them down. My day is
invaded with random pieces of phrases and thoughts regarding the case. Here’s
an excerpt from an email I sent to my mentor that day:
As
I write this email I'm poignantly reminded about the importance of our work,
that if even incrementally, stereotypes, perceptions, misunderstandings and knowledge
concerning Black people must be challenged and reshaped. May this be the
passion that both informs and guides our writing.
As my
parent’s only son, I wanted to reach out and hug them, letting them know that I
love them and that I care, let them know that I was still here. That day I
wanted more to reach out to and check up on the young Black boys and men in my
life. I wanted to let them know that they’re special and that I care because
that day it hit me. Trayvon could have easily been one of my students. He could
have been a young Black boy, fresh faced and wide-eyed, on his way to George
Washington University to sit in my classroom for the semester. He could’ve sat
in my office as we discussed what it means to be a young Black man at a
highly-selective PWI (Predominantly White Institution) and I would’ve told him
that he is capable, he belongs, and that I am excited about his success. I would've helped him navigate the
institution. I would've dapped him up. I would've told him I was proud. But now
that’s not possible. Reflecting on this, I was reminded about the space that
Black men in America occupy: at once both feared and hated, oft misunderstood,
recipients of undue scrutiny, always thought to be suspect. A space of being
othered instead of embraced. This is the reality of Black men. Earlier that day
I wrote this:
Frustration.
The angst, I feel it now. It makes sense to me why I should feel mad. On the
bus to work today I see Black men. Some are wearing caps and sneakers, others
suits and dress shoes. They span the spectrum and the common denominator is
that they're both Black and male. And as such, subject to be misperceived.
Kanye's Poplar Trees is blaring in my ear. A scowl invades my face. I
write. I get it. I'm upset because
others still view us, yes us, as a monolith and as a result of this monolithic
thinking, Trayvon could've been my o…
Wednesday,
July 17, 2013
So
what’s my resolve? It’s more so preventative in that I fervently hope my
thoughts, actions, interactions, work, and research challenge and reshape
stereotypes, perceptions, misunderstandings and knowledge concerning Black
people, so another Trayvon Martin will not be killed.