A Nation Aflame

To protest violently or not to protest violently? It's the hottest debate. After another Black death at the hands of a White police officer, some of the BLM protestors set fire to public buildings. What to make of this? Why did they do what they did? Why not the peaceful protest?

This is why listening matters. It matters more than ever and listening is the only thing that can keep the country together at this point. We need compassion. 

                                                                               --

Imagine if it's commonplace to hear that another person who shared the same skin color as you died at the hands of a police officer. You hear it from a cousin, perhaps. Your cousin was there when it happened, and he swears that the police had no grounds to shoot him to death. You trust your cousin, but there is a small voice of doubt and disbelief in your head. A police officer did that? You attend the kid's funeral. 

Not soon after, another case happens. Similar scenario. Another funeral. 

Then another. 

Every time, the family weeps. Sometimes, they try to fade away. Other times, they try to seek justice. They go to the police department who offers their condolences. Some of the officers are nonchalant, just wanting to get the weeping family out of the room. Other officers empathize. The department promises it won't happen again. In special cases, the department integrates safety protocol into their training. 

But the deaths don't stop. A trend appears: a Black life in the hands of a White officer. The trend is so apparent, it's hard to ignore. You soon have your own baby, a little boy. You know that no matter how many times those families complained after their loved ones died, the deaths still didn't stop, and there was no way in hell that your baby was going to get hurt by an officer. 

So, as they grow older, you teach them to make it very clear to police officers that he is not a threat. And if possible, not to approach police officers at all. If he has a problem, he goes to you. 

It's late out, the sun just beginning to sink beneath the buildings. Your boy says he's heading out for a jog. He puts in his earphones and puts his hood up. Before he leaves, you tell him he better be back before the sun is down and to put his hood down -- he looks too threatening. He says okay, okay, and he's out. 

That's the last time you see him. 

You never thought it would happen to you. You were careful. You made sure he was careful. So why are you getting this call about your son being dead? Maybe they made a mistake. But you see him in person. Your face breaks and you start to cry. You lose your mind. Your body gives into your emotions. You're just a heap of flesh and all you can do is cry and cry, hoping the nightmare would end. 

But it gets worse. You see your son's face on the news and a video of him and the officer. He did what you taught him. He was a good boy. He made sure the officer knew he wasn't a threat. But the officer held him down. He said he couldn't breathe! At this point, you're yelling at the TV, "He said he can't breathe! Let him go! He said he can't breathe!" But you knew what the ending was, that it was inevitable. You're sobbing again. And so angry.

You find yourself in the position of the family members who had lost their sons too. You speak to the department. You seek legal justice. You just want to make things right. Your son was gone but you knew, oh you knew, that these deaths wouldn't stop. It was personal now. 

But the department brushes you aside like they did the other families. They try to calm you down. Offer their condolences. "It wasn't right what happened. We'll make sure it won't happen again." The legal fees are too expensive. You ask your people for help but even with all of your money together, it was still too much to afford. The officer goes back on the streets. 

What else could you do? You rack your brain. You hear people are trying to reach the top somehow. Maybe if we could get the attention of government officials, some law could pass, something. You don't know what but all you know is that you want this to end for good. Not just some empty promises, but really end. 

Politics is so confusing. No one would listen to you or your fellow protestors. It's been a few years since your son's death and your whole life has changed since then. You're active and persistent. You know that the right way is peaceful but unrelenting pressure. You've organized a few marches. You've even spoken to some representatives. You make sure that the names of those Black boys aren't forgotten. You've done what so many others have done before you, trying to incite real change, but you realize this is going to be a marathon. And all the while, Black boys will keep dying. 

More years pass. It's the anniversary of his death, and by this time he is just another forgotten name, but not to you. Not much has improved since his death. Young boys were still dying. No one was listening. People were still debating over racism in America, what to do about it, whether it still exists. They speak freely, too. Just words everywhere, going nowhere. You had migraines almost every night. You could almost feel your son hugging you, telling you he was worried about your health and that you been stressing over him too much. You were getting older and your body knew it. You wonder if you could see the end of this before you died. 

You make your way home, whip up some dinner, and turn on the news like you did every night. A soft gasp escapes your body and you almost drop your plate. You sit down slowly and watch as that horrible night unfolds again: A young Black boy, around the age of your son. He was also jogging. He was also killed by a White police officer. And someone had taken a video of it. It was a curse, it had to be. How many years has it been? Ten years? Not including the decades before that of other parents who marched and tried to make change for their babies. So why were you still here, watching it happen all over again? 

It was too overwhelming. Once you started to cry, you couldn't stop yourself. The emotions of that night came rushing back. But it was more painful because of the years you wasted doing what you thought was helpful, what you thought was right. But nothing changed. Nothing. Nothing. Your baby boy just keeps dying and dying. You are so sad and frustrated and angry, all at the same time. But most of all, you are hopeless. 

A few days later, there is a protest. You join, as you do. But even as you chant, you feel empty. You can't rid the thought: "This is pointless. Nothing is going to change."

It's late out, the sun just beginning to sink beneath the buildings. You hear yelling, and the crowd suddenly thickens, packing to see what was happening. In the corner of your eye, you see someone try to hide Molotov cocktails beneath his jacket, but you saw the cloth and the outline of the bottle, and you knew what it was. You realize what he's about to do. You feel like you should stop him because it's not right. Peace can only be achieved through peace. Peaceful protests are how we should approach this, not vigilante acts, not violence. If we resort to that, they won't take us seriously. 

But your heart still ached. Your eyes are still dry from crying the night before. You think about your boy and that boy on the news. His name was going to disappear soon, too. You knew that first-hand. His name would only be remembered by his parents or by protestors. But what's in remembering a name? All the years fighting for justice. All those years being brushed off by authority figures. All the years before you of people doing the same thing with nothing changing. You are tired. You just want them to pay attention. You didn't want another boy's name to disappear. God, if you could just get them to care for one Black boy, just one, if they could feel the pain you felt for your son, even just 1% of it, you knew they would do everything in their power to make real change.

You find yourself grabbing the cocktail. The man pulls back, shocked, but he sees the resolve in your face and softens his grip. Amidst the chaos, you lift the bottle, the gas slushing inside, and chuck it as hard as you could.

And set the nation aflame.

                                                                               --

This is a fictional story, my own interpretation of the emotions involved, but in a way, not fictional. It's a hypothetical you, but, really, what would you do when all peaceful avenues were exhausted? If you weren't sure anything would change unless you did more? 

We are laser-focused on the building set aflame, but it's a symptom of a larger issue. Our police force has failed them. Our justice system has failed them. Our politicians have failed them. And your sons keep dying. Yes, your sons. They are America's children. 

But what captures America's attention? Perhaps the death of these boys, but it will only last for so long. So instead, a burning building. Not just any building, but that which represents our country's police force. It's followed by more acts of desperation: burning police cars, blocked freeways from the sheer mass of people, windows shattered and stores looted. Listen to us. Listen. In my law school, they teach us that the law's job is to prevent self-help. The law's job is to maintain civility. People self-help because the systems meant to govern and protect them have failed at their jobs. 

So I don't believe we should be completely condemning those who threw the cocktails. It's like condemning an ant who bit your foot when you stepped on its hill. Yes, the bite was bad, but why did it happen? Because something much worse caused it to happen.

If we want to take this seriously and prevent violent protests, we need to remedy the root of the issue. We've been peacefully protesting for so long, so I'm not talking right now to protestors.

I'm talking to people who have power. Make change happen. Now. 

And for the deeper, twisted sickness of racial divides, I honestly don't know where to start or how to remedy it. Have you ever had that relative at a dinner table who was so stubborn in how he thinks that you cannot even fathom him thinking otherwise? I don't know if we can ever get him to listen to the mothers and fathers of the dead Black boys, but you know who else is at that table? Those who silently watch the argument unfold. Who will they listen to? Who will they believe? When they're with their friends or if they have children of their own, what knowledge and philosophies will they pass on?

I'm not asking you to throw cocktails, but take their anger seriously. Educate yourself. Speak up, with just anger and conviction but tempered with respect. Don't be like those who don't listen to us. If they speak, listen to them as well, even if you are pressed not to, because, above all, we need to be a nation who listens. We know the pain of being cast aside and ignored, but more so the dangers of a turned head. 

When we get to a point where they listen to what we say and we can listen to what they say and we realize we both want peace and justice, we can start moving together towards a common goal instead of focusing on divide. 

This is not some naive philosophy. In the end, are we not all human? We draw these lines between us, making continents, countries, states, cities, you are in this box, I am in this box, but it's an illusion. We drew those lines. When we take them down, we can see that we are one people. We share each other's pains. We live on one blue marble together. And we each have one life to spare. 

There's a fire burning down our nation right now. Let's put this out together.