Melanin Crime

Not Guilty

I waited with bated breath for the next sentence.

Nothing came.

That was it. I cannot lie. It hurt. I was crushed. All of the air was let out of my sails. My friend likened it to someone spitting in the face of Black America.

I understand the desire to overlook racism as a fact of life. I did it for years. I grew up as a Military brat. My friends were always a diverse group. No one ever had the: “you are black and so therefore you are different” speech with me. My father’s family is pro-black. I mean Black History speeches in church, Black church plays, celebrating Kwanzaa. I read Roots in 4th grade. Still, at holidays if someone was hungry regardless of color, religious affiliation, they could find a seat at my grandmothers table. I wasn’t taught to not see color. I was just taught by example to respect and honor people.

When I was 13, we moved to Florida. I had always been bright. I don’t say this to brag. In fact, I think other people feel I’m far more intelligent than I really am. I attended a predominantly black school for the first time in my life. Per usual, we took standardized test and when the results came in, I placed highest in a few of the categories. I was called by loudspeaker to the office to pick up my trophies. When I got there the secretary said, before asking me my name, you’re in the wrong office for referrals. I looked around. I was the only student in the office. I must have had a blank look because she inquired as to why I was there. I told her. She went searching. When the dots finally connected, she said: “YOU scored the highest. Hmph.” Over the years I would hear comments like this many more times. I took a reading test twice at the local community college. I hadn’t missed any questions. The prompter was sure it was a system error due to my high school. Still, I didn’t really see these things as racism. I excused them away. Racism was a thing of the past; racism was in people’s heads. It was an excuse.

In 2010, after working overtime, late one night on the drive home, I realized I had missed my turn. I turned into a hotel and a patrol car turned his lights on. I pulled over, grabbed my license, registration, and my insurance card. The officer came to window and I gave him my paperwork. As I waited, I sat there trying to figure out if I was speeding? Did I forget to use my turn signal? When he returned, he said: “well surprisingly you don’t have any warrants.” He asked “What are you doing out here at this time of night.” I told him that I was just getting off work. He asked why I was pulling into a hotel when I didn’t live far. I told him. I finally asked what he pulled me over for. He said well this is a well-known drug spot. I was closer to the daytime location, so I was shocked. I worked in an affluent area. He wanted permission to search my car. Around this time a second car pulled up. While they searched, he asked questions. Why do you have lotion in your car? Why are there shoes in your trunk? I had been standing on the side of the car. He asked me to turn around and put my hands behind my back. He wanted to check and see if I had warrants elsewhere. He hadn’t cuffed me, but he was holding me tight and one of my mid-back length locks was caught in the crook of my arm. The pain of it pulling combined with the uncomfortable position caused me to fidget. The officer told me that if I kept it up he would handcuff me and put me in the back of the car. He asked me why I was nervous. Do you have a gun or something? He asked me if he needed to pull his gun. He asked me if I was hiding drugs. I said no to both. I answered that I had never been in trouble and I wasn’t used to being treated like a criminal. I told him that the way he held my hands made me uncomfortable. He said well if you move again you’re going in handcuffs. You fit the description of a drug dealer. Finally the second officer, a woman stepped in. She told him to leave me alone. She said there’s nothing here. He’s been on his job for almost 5 years. It’s right on his employee badge. Put your gun away. Let him go. He did cautioning me to not be out so late at night. I went home feeling dejected, subhuman even. I finally admitted to myself when I had no other choice that racism was real. It made me remember that when my nephew died my cousin told my sister and me, that we should find comfort that in the fact that his death was natural. In the fact that his last minutes were spent with her and not that someone had taken him from us. Although it comforted me somewhat; I didn’t understand it fully until Saturday night. Is this our reality America? Would we rather have our kids die before their prime from natural causes, so that no one else kills them?

Tuesday, I went to Wal-Mart. I encountered a little girl not far from her mother. She had blonde hair and blue eyes. She was adorable. The child spoke to me multiple times. I spoke back each time. She asked my name and I told her. Finally, I grabbed the starch I was looking for and as I was walking away, I smiled and bid her farewell. She called out my name; asking for a hug. I smiled. I turned to leave. I heard her mother’s caustic tones: “Bella, Bella, come here. Don’t be sad. They’re having a bad week. It’s not your fault.” Her words punched me in the kidneys. I had done the right thing, right? I shouldn’t have hugged the little girl I didn’t know in Wal-Mart, right? It didn’t have anything to do with her. It had everything to do with me being a strange man. I can’t go around hugging children I don’t know, can I?

Have we come to a place where as Americans we can’t dress our kids a certain way? Where our kids have to identify themselves to strangers even if it means their life? Is being black a crime in America? How can we fix something we have no control over? How do we explain to our kids that they aren’t supposed to talk to strangers, but maybe if a strange man is following you he’s a part of the neighborhood watch and you should tell him who you are and where you live even though he hasn’t told you that. You shouldn’t fight anyone or scream for help if someone is following you. You shouldn’t be out at night. You shouldn’t go anywhere without your parents. You shouldn’t. Is that the message we want our kids to have. Have we as Americans forgotten that cases like this are there reason laws are made. Arizona vs. Miranda, Brown vs. The Board of Education, Loving v. Virginia, Plessy v. Ferguson, the list goes on…… That’s why this case was important. Saturday it was just some black kid, but it could be anyone tomorrow.

Extreme Care

Yesterday, I promised to help my friend with an errand after work. When I pulled in to her apartment complex, I got out of the car and immediately heard someone’s music blasting. I shrugged it off. I would only be bothered by the noise for a brief minute. I couldn’t really tell the genre, much less the song. I pressed my way to my friend’s car only to discover that it was her music. I knew the exact genre. I purchased the CD for her as a birthday gift the day before. It was Alicia Keys’ latest work and she was excited to get it. Now from outside the car all I heard was the bass and treble of the song. Inside I could clearly hear the words and the harmonies attached to the beat. The romanticism of Alicia crooning about lips she missed.

The other day on Facebook I learned that people believed that offense my friend committed by blasting her music was disrespectful enough to warrant losing your life for. I was stunned. Music? Music is universal, right? Everyone loves music in some form or aspect, right? We may not agree on the genre, but we can all agree that music is therapeutic to some. At least it is to most people I know. I had never imagined that someone would lose their life over music being played too loud. Until I saw in the news that just that had happened. I was outraged. Music? Loud music started an argument that would result in death? Seriously?

This box contains the remains of a high schooler who attends school maybe 5 minutes from where I live. Jordan Davis, 17, was murdered at a gas station after a trip to the mall with his friends on the day after Thanksgiving. News reports have quoted the shooter as saying he believed the kids were gangsters. He says he felt threatened. Even going as far as saying he thought he saw a gun. The police search showed no evidence of a gun in the teenager’s car. I want to make this not be about race. I want to tell you that I don’t believe it was racially motivated. That would be dishonest. It’s clear, at least to me, that the reason he thought these kids were gangsters is because they were African-Americans playing loud music. The irony of this is my friend, the young woman who was blasting her music. She’s a graduate of the same high school I live 5 minutes from. Though she is closing in on her 10 year reunion, she still looks 17. Guess what she does for a living? She writes. She lives every day trying to inspire people. Trying to make people believe they can live their dream. She’s college educated. Gainfully employed. Goes to church regularly and still does her grandma’s bidding without hesitation. She lives maybe 2 minutes by car from the gas station where the young man was shot. The errand she needed help with? Carrying a 30 pound box filled with books of her self-published poetry. Would he have considered her a gangster?  And what about me? The black guy who is the very embodiment  of what the media visually depicts as a hoodlum, with my waist length locks and scruffy beard.  Does society see me as a thug too? The guy who is more comfortable reading a book than watching TV. What of my 7-year-old nephew? Who gets straight A’s and loves Star Wars. Who kisses his mother and his sister every 10 minutes. Who cries if you speak to him in a harsh tone. Will he grow up to be viewed as a potential evildoer? What about my friend’s son who wears urban clothing, has reached the age of maturity, but still defers to his mother whether she is wrong or right out of respect. Will America only ever see us as thugs? As gang bangers? As miscreants? I don’t understand America. I don’t understand how loud music can justify killing someone. How long are we ever even at the gas station? 5 minutes tops. If he asked them to turn it down and they didn’t, what harm would have taken place from simply letting it go.   Someone on Facebook asked why Jordan had to wait to die to be seen as someone to be handled with “Extreme Care”. I agree wholeheartedly. Why don’t we handle each other with extreme care? Not out of fear. Not out of refusal to grasp the complexities of something that is much different from what you can comprehend. Why don’t we handle each other with extreme care because we all want to be treated with care? We all want to be treated like we are valuable. We all want to be treated like someone cherishes us. Why did Jordan have to die to be seen as something that should be treated gently? And what of Jordan’s parents? His dad let him go to the mall with his friends. His father is quoted as saying that the next time he laid eyes on his son, he was told not to touch him. He was now evidence in a case. Aren’t you always supposed to be able to come home from the mall? If you leave a passenger in the car at a gas station, aren’t you supposed to come out and find them the same way you left them? America, aren’t our babies always supposed to be treated with extreme care and return home to us unharmed? Well, aren’t they?