Words Can Be Dangerous

THIS BLOG WAS WRITTEN IN DECEMBER, 2014.

            Words; language; the ability to communicate and convey thoughts and ideas. Words are an amazing thing. Words have the ability to lift you higher than you can imagine and words can break your heart. Words can make you think; they can make you feel. Words can be complex and difficult to navigate or they can be simple and sweet and make you smile, or warm, or feel love. Words can be dangerous. They can incite and ignite; they can lead people to violence; or, they can lead people to freedom. Words, they are the first and the last thing we hear in our earthly lives.

                I read a piece recently about Ulysses, author James Joyce’s seminal novel about one day in the life of one man. I must confess, I was never overly impressed with Mr. Joyce or his novel. I read it because it was known as “America’s most banned book.” At its publication in the early days of twentieth century it was deemed pornographic and lurid, too lurid for “decent” society.

            Ulysses is just one in dozens of books – both great works of literature and mediocre musings – which find their way to be banned, prohibited from view, because someone thinks the words can cause harm. Words are dangerous. Remember the book burnings in Germany as Hitler and his henchmen came to power? Remember Salman Rushdie and his “death sentence” by fatwah for allegations of defaming the Islamic prophet? Remember the Chinese Christians locked up for having Bibles? Words convey ideas, dreams, frustrations. Words can change the course of history and topple governments. Words are powerful.

            The other week, Veterans Day to be specific, there was a concert held on the Washington Mall featuring a host of popular entertainers. Rap artist Eminem in his performance shouted out “Happy F----n Veteran’s Day.” Words can offend.

            In the past three weeks we have seen this nation’s ugly racial problems play out. Grand juries, first in Ferguson, Missouri and then just this week in New York City, refused to indict white police officers in the deaths of black men. The rhetoric on both sides has inflamed the tension. And I thought much during this time about our seeming inability to hear each other. Amid the shouting and the video bits of looting and protests, with dozens of “talking heads” trying to convince us what we should think, the meaning of it all gets lost in the cacophony of words.

            “There’s no excuse for violence or looting,” I heard that a lot. Wasn’t it the Black Panther leader Stokey Carmichael who said “violence is as American as apple pie.” And there’s truth in those words. The American Revolution wasn’t a quiet debate between agrarian intellectuals and London elites. It was bloody and barbaric. The Boston Massacre, years before the start of the revolution, was incited by a rioting mob attacking British soldiers. Violence was, violence is unfortunately, a corner-stone of this country’s history. There was nothing “civil” about this nation’s civil war. We are a nation littered in blood and violence. From “Bloody Kansas to Bloody Selma,” from the burning of Washington to the burning of Watts, we are a people steeped in rioting, and conflict, and turmoil. It is our visceral reaction, our birthright. So, breathe deeply and relax, this too shall pass.

            Five St. Louis Rams football players enter the stadium last Sunday. They raise their hands signifying “hands up, don’t shoot,” the chant which has overtaken the Ferguson protests. The five are pilloried for taking a political stance at a game. “They don’t have the right,” we hear. Except, they do. And the league can discipline them. This is, after all, America and at least – in theory – you can protest, you can speak out. You may lose your job, but you still have the right. And, it doesn’t escape my sense of humor that we react with awe and admiration when a young Chinese man tries to stop a tank in Tiananmen Square but we are offended when traffic is stopped on the Brooklyn Bridge.

            “Now we are engaged in a great civil war testing whether that nation – or any nation – can long endure.” Immortal words from President Abraham Lincoln on November 19, 1863, at the dedication of the National Cemetery at Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. His words that day – less than 300 words penned by him – continue to reverberate in this nation’s conscience. I find myself turning to those words to try and understand what does this country stand for, what do we mean?

            It is time for a “civil” dialog. Words matter and words today can make all the difference. This past week two NBA greats – television commentators Charles Barkley and Kenny Smith – engaged in a civil dialog. Both successful Black men, they see the incidents in Ferguson and New York City differently. To Barkley, rioters/looters are “scumbags.” “Not all black people are good and not all white people are evil. We need the police in our poor neighborhoods.” To Smith, “if you are on an island with no way off, some will rise above, some will act in horrific ways, and some will lose hope.” A funny thing happened as these two men disagreed. As Charles Barkley said, “Kenny’s alright with me.” In their debate, in their disagreement there was commonality, there was “civil” discourse.

            A personal reflection. On a number of occasions I’ve had people try and tell me I should shut down the blog or not write some of what I put out. I’ve had gang bangers threaten me, ignorant white and black inmates tell me to “keep they business” off my pages. I’ve had COs tell me “higher ups” review my blogs. “Don’t write about security or senior staff or they’ll go after you,” a few officers have told me. I keep writing because words matter. Words can illuminate and educate and bring about change. And perhaps that’s what makes them so dangerous.

            You can burn books; you can ban writers; but words are ideas. And ideas make us human and will endure.

 

Justice … In Black and White

THIS BLOG WAS WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER, 2014.

            She stands blindfolded, the Goddess of Justice, holding scales. Justice, we are told, is blind. It is blind to color, creed, national origin. It is blind to wealth. Justice, the balancing of wrongs and restoration of rights rest on the fundamental tenet that it is fair, that all are equal before the law. “With liberty and justice for all.” Six simple words yet so complicated, so difficult to achieve. “All are equal before the law regardless of the color of your skin or your parents’ wealth.” That is the myth of American justice. And myths aren’t necessarily bad things. They bind us as community when there is truth in the myth. Unfortunately, justice is not equal. Justice sees wealth, and Nationality, and color. Justice is biased … and it is as different as black and white.

            Much of social media (the blogosphere, et al) is devoted to turning visceral reaction into fact. And, as my Poli-Sci professor in college noted thirty plus years ago, “where you stand (on an issue) depends on where you sit (your life experiences)”. So, a Black woman in a housing project who sees her teenage son repeatedly stopped and frisked by police will have a different opinion of law enforcement than the white, suburbanite homemaker in the gated community who watches as the same police make two passes each day through the neighborhood. Neither gut reaction can be challenged. Neither is built on fact, however. Facts matter, perhaps never more so than “Ferguson” and “Cleveland” so soon after “Trayvon.” Facts – and honesty – matter.

            Fact: 93% of all murders of African-Americans come at the hand of African-Americans. And the per capita murder rate is 8 times higher for black than white teens. At the same time, 86% of all white murder victims are killed by whites. This should come as no surprise. Even with the dismantling of de jure segregation we remain a country de facto segregated. My elderly mother lives in fear of young black men marauding through her neighborhood like an angry Viking horde. Know what? There are no black families in her upscale Raleigh neighborhood. There are no black teens and if there were, the chances are they wouldn’t bother it. A member of her church, or “over 55” club is more likely to cause her harm.

            Fact: Blacks and whites use drugs in equal percentages. But, blacks are more likely to be prosecuted for drug possession and more likely to be incarcerated. Blacks are also stopped significantly more than whites even when accounting for demographic data in a community (in wealthy areas, upscale black teens are still disproportionately stopped over their white compatriots). In Virginia, 59% of all DOC inmates are African-American while only 36% are white, yet both races commit crimes at the same level.

            “And justice for all.” One out of three young black men born since 2000 will end up with a criminal arrest record before age 18. Imagine – as a white parent – what your visceral reaction would be if those numbers were applied to your family and friends.

            Crime is color-blind; crime doesn’t care about the size of your bank balance. But, justice, justice does care. Black and poor are disproportionately harmed by arrest and sentencing. A huge bank steals billions in account holders funds and is given a “criminal settlement” of $7 billion – again money from the bank’s investors – while the perpetrators remain free. A young Iraqi War vet suffering from PTSD “robs” a bank with an unloaded shotgun. He gets $8,000; he sentenced to 12 years. “And justice for all.”

            Ferguson, Missouri. Race – on both sides – has driven this entire tragic circumstance. What if Michael Brown had been white? Chances are, he wouldn’t have been stopped, white teens are not stopped like black teens. What of the confrontation with Officer Wilson? Race factored in on both sides. Blacks generally view the police as a mercenary force, a foreign invader. Police – overwhelmingly white – view black teens as criminals – in – waiting; they sense the hostility present in the neighborhood. And the result is the loss of another young black man. Was the teen murdered by a racist cop? Was the cop attacked and in fear for his life when the gun was fired? I don’t know. My gut tells me Officer Wilson was not racist; he was a cop trying to do his job and “things” took a wrong turn. But, as a white cop, he was pre-disposed to see a black teen as trouble. And Michael Brown? He was no saint. That shouldn’t matter because (1) Wilson had no right to even stop him and (2) he shouldn’t be dead.

            Let’s remember, black or white, a mother and a father grieve over the senseless death of their son. Do we “hurumph” when a teenager, driving recklessly, dies in a car accident? No. We show empathy. We show sympathy. We feel for the grieving parents knowing that could be us. Michael Brown’s parents – like Trayvon Martin’s parents – deserve that. That isn’t a race issue, that’s simple human decency and compassion.

            “And Justice for All.” How many times do you think grand juris convene and don’t hand down indictments? It’s unheard of, and yet here we see a grand jury do just that. Makes you wonder, answer: 162,000 US grand jury indictments.

            Cleveland. A young boy flashing a play gun. The 911 call comes in saying that. “There’s a kid with a play gun.” The video shows police roll up to the scene, the boy waves the gun in the air and “Bam” a shot rings out from the police cruiser and the twelve year-old is dead. Silence. No outrage. No questioning about “justice” about living in a land dedicated to “equal justice under Law” where a Black President decries the violence yet allows the Pentagon to sell off military-style equipment to police departments; a President who oversees an “intelligence gathering apparatus” that collects virtually every bit of private data on you. Makes you wonder.

            Race and income matter in police work and in the criminal justice system. They cloud and distort the truth and they leave distrust and anger in their wake.

            I don’t know what happened in Ferguson, Missouri. I know this, race played a role in it. I also know those on the “right” and “left” who use tragedies such as this who spread innuendo and rumor in the name of their political position face a special place in hell. I know there are too many police shootings, too many dead black teens, too many mothers crying.

            Sitting in here I hear a disturbing separation. To the young black men who have had numerous encounters with officers like Wilson it reinforces the idea that America seeks genocide on young blacks; to the white guys, many viscerally side with the white cop and say the “n----- had it coming.” How do you respond to such ignorance? How indeed.

            “Red and yellow, Black and white, they are precious in His sight. Jesus loves the little children of the world.”

            Justice – real, justice – like mercy, is blind. It is high time we begin in our own lives striving for that ideal.

 

A Tale of Two Cities

The dichotomy was apparent. During the same weekend; from the same city, great joy and pride and terrible heartache and loss. Chicago. Summer in Chicago. And like so many other summers in that mid-western city, the blood of its youth spills too easily. Black children lying dead. Teenagers gunned down by gun-toting Black teenagers shouting gang slogans. A three year old shoots himself in the head with a gun his paroled felon father – a gun he should not have because of his criminal record – carelessly left out. Five dead. All children. Another weekend in Chicago and it barely registers a mention on the news.

Pennsylvania. Baseball; little league baseball. An all-black team from the Southside of Chicago, “the baddest part of town.” They win the American draw, beating a team from Nevada who five days earlier had knocked them around. It’s Williamsport – idyllic, rural Pennsylvania – where every summer young baseball players from around the world gather and play the greatest game on fields of green grass and manicured infields. Baseball and Pennsylvania are a million miles from Chicago.

For months the talking heads on Sports TV have decried the absence of Black big leaguers. And, by the numbers they are right. Growing up, I remember Mays and Aaron, and Gibson. I wanted to be Willie Mays. Today, less than one in ten ball players are African American. The pundits have a dozen theories. But, I listened as the coach of the all-black squad from Chicago, from the almost all-black “Jackie Robinson Little League” answered the question:

“Baseball is a game passed down by your father. In our league we still have a lot of fathers. It’s not that way for everyone.”

Jackie Robinson. Perhaps no single man’s courage and self-control mattered more in the country’s slow march toward integration than he did. Jackie Robinson, a great man, a hero. And yet today, more young black kids in Chicago can tell you about Jay Z than Jackie. Who really matters? What really matters?

Missouri. Over four thousand people gather for the funeral of a young black man gunned down by a white police officer. No one yet knows what happened. I don’t presume to know what was in the officer’s heart before firing those fateful shots and I choose to believe he is distraught because blood has been spilled. Too many – on both sides – use this tragedy for their own political ends. Blood spilled and a family mourns a son gone too young. And, another family lives with the repercussions.

Here’s what I wonder, how many black children have to die in the street of Chicago at the hands of other black children before someone stands up and says “enough!” Where is the national outrage and national dialog as we watch thousands of young kids turning to gangs and killing each other? Why is “Ferguson” the issue and not just a symptom of something so much larger? And why are we not watching – and listening – to the mothers and fathers of those ballplayers?

A young man I know in here from Richmond told me about the shootings that regularly took place near his home. He was raised in a home with a mom too young to care for herself, let alone three young kids. So “Gramma” became their refuge. “Gramma” fed them, even when it was just mayonnaise on white bread. “Gramma” was responsible. Mom? She was in and out; Dad? He was at “state farm” (Powhatan to those not “in the know” on Virginia’s prisons).

And summers in Richmond, summers in the city’s notorious Gilpin Court, were filled with robberies and drug deals and killings. My young friend whom I tutor in English and Excel and any other class which comes our way, tells me when he was six he was sitting on the front stoop with his brother and sister. “It was loud, like a firecracker. Pop, pop, pop. Then, people across the street started running and that’s when I saw him … bleeding as he fell in the street.” His first seen “body.” Man shot across the street staggers and dies yards from him. And his six-year-old eyes see it all.

A few moments later, the police and an ambulance arrive. The neighbors stand all around but nobody “saw anything,” at least not in Gilpin Court. An ice cream truck approaches and Gramma gets the three kids popsicles, “Red, white, and blue rockets,” he tells me. They stand with the others behind the yellow tape, licking their popsicles as the dead man is loaded up and carted off and the blood, pooled on the ground remains. Gilpin Court, Richmond. Another dead black young man.

I can’t watch the news about Ferguson, Missouri anymore. It seems almost ghoulish and undignified. And, no matter what that young man may – or may not – have done, I can’t help but think it could have been avoided. There are too many dying too young and they look like so many of the young men I care about in here.

I confront race every day in this place. Early on, in my first few weeks in jail when my life was in a complete tailspin, I realized how little I really knew about being black in America. Every opinion I held as fact came from a life almost completely devoid of blackness. Then again, almost every opinion I held as fact came from a life almost completely devoid of contact with poverty, poor education, ignorance, and a whole lot more. My opinions were all forged from my own privileged life. I knew, I soon realized almost nothing about living – and dying – in America. Dylan wrote about such things in “License to Kill,”

Now all he believes are his eyes

And his eyes they just tell him lies

But there’s a woman on my block

Who sits there as the night grows still

She says who’s gonna take away his license to kill?

I hear about my young friend’s life in Richmond, I watch as more families weep over the loss of children cut down for no good reason and I wonder who will take away our license to kill? When will we see beyond color or economic status and mourn, really mourn the incredible waste of life and vow to do better? It seems as if it will overwhelm us, destroy us, condemn us. And then, twenty young black kids in yellow shirts with white pants run across the infield and I see hope.

Two cities. You can take all the pain and death and despair of Chicago, and Ferguson, and Richmond together and weep and lose hope until you see Williamsport, Pennsylvania and grass, and smiles, and baseball. 

You know what gives hope? When all you see and hear is death and anger and you look around your prison housing unit and almost every TV is turned to a team of little leaguers from Chicago and guys, hardened by life and crime and death are pulling for these kids as they play … a game.

There isn’t a black and white; there’s green and there is the sound of a ball coming off a bat and there’s joy. 

Ferguson

I was still learning my way around the jail, still new to “life” behind bars when I met Ferguson. He was a clean-cut deputy, white, polite, mid-thirties. He spoke to me when he’d come through the pod. He treated me with respect. He treated me the way I was used to being treated…

There was a young black kid in the pod with me. He was always angry and he was, how do I say it, not right in the head. His eyes darted; he spoke in fragments, his hair was a jumbled mess, which matched his clothing and his personal hygiene. I learned on day 1 in the pod to stay clear of this kid.

So one morning this kid goes up to the booth and knocks on the Plexiglas. “I gotta go to court” he stammers and spits out. “You aren’t even on the list,” the deputy retorts in a mocking tone. “I … gotta … go … to … fuckin … court … you motherfuc … !” The kid is swearing and yelling and banging on the Plexiglas booth. “Step back from the booth!” Now the deputy is raising his voice.

This goes on for ten minutes or so and I am transfixed by the idiocy of it all. I’ve never seen anything like this. The kid has run back and forth to his cell a half dozen times only to come back to the booth, hurl profanity at the Plexiglas, paper in hand, demanding to be taken to court. And the booth officer continues to mock and berate him each time, goading him to “come through the glass.” Finally, the pod door opens and in steps Ferguson. He seeks to present a calm presence, but a presence of authority. With his hand raised as a stop sign he politely, but forcefully says, “Son, step away from the booth and go to your cell. You are not going to court.” The kid stops banging on the glass. He turns to the officer and in slow, steady steps approaches him. I notice he has a Styrofoam cup in his hand. I notice it the same time Ferguson does, just as the cup is being thrown at the officer. I look and I watch and I see …

“He threw shit on Ferguson!” The pod erupts. The kid had defecated in the Styrofoam cup and tossed it on the officer. And Ferguson’s hand is now dropped; his authority vanishing before my eyes. “Ferguson is covered in shit!” The chant begins. The pod doors fly open and four beefy, camouflaged clad officers rush in. Three wrestle and throw the kid to the floor; the fourth tries to help Ferguson. I watch it all in amazement. And I wonder, how do you recover after you’ve been covered in excrement?

I thought about all that as I watched another unarmed black kid get killed by a white cop and then hoodlums turn legitimate protests into an excuse to loot. Ferguson, Missouri (this time) is covered in shit. Will we ever learn?

“By vigorously defending the rights of individuals, we keep in check the excesses of the government which, if allowed to grow unbridled, would consume us all.”

These are the words of a conservative Republican, a former New Jersey Assemblyman and lawyer, John W. Hartmann. “Unbridled government.” We live in a post 9/11 America where the police are now given free reign, by the Pentagon, MRAPs (armored personnel carriers). We saw this week police arrest reporters and Baptist preachers for doing nothing more than observing the cluster f --- that has been the police response to the killing of an unarmed black young man at their hands.

Hey folks, this is still America. This “power by government gun” was what the founding fathers were so adamant about challenging in the 1760s through the Revolution. And yet, we have become a nation that buys the lie that the police and the government are working to keep us safe and secure. “Surrendering liberty in the name of security and safety gives you neither.”  Old Ben Franklin, where are you?

Black and white. Here are simple facts – blacks and whites commit crimes generally in equal rates yet four out of five arrests are of blacks. Last year, four hundred police shootings – like the one in Ferguson – took place against black teen males; less than fifty involved white teens. We talk – and by “we” I mean people who look like me – white and affluent – about America being a “color blind” society. I call “bullshit.” Electing a black man President doesn’t get America over its racial animus. It is time for white America to honestly assess race. “All men are created equal; they are endowed by their creator …” Those words are a universal truth, not applicable only to one color, one creed.

Glenn Loury, author of The Anatomy of Racial Inequality posed the following:

“Can we imagine a large majority of young white men being rounded up for minor drug offenses, placed under the control of the criminal justice system, labeled felons, and subjected to a lifetime of discrimination, scorn, and exclusion? No, we cannot. If such a thing occurred it would make us wonder, ‘what is wrong with us?’”

What, indeed.

A story. My older son was junior in high school. He was an honor student, on the school’s “Battle of the Brains” team. The high school was in a “drug free” zone, which, I later learned gave the local police power to run drug dogs through anytime the police deemed it “necessary.” Did I mention that out kids attended a majority black school?

So this day, the dogs come through and sit by my son while he’s taking a test. He is led out of the room and he and his book bag are searched. He is then escorted out to his car, which is also searched. No drugs; no nothing. He tells me what happened and I explode – not at him but at an arrogant sheriff who thinks he can run in to a school, violate the U.S. constitution and search minors without parental consent.

The next day, my wife and I meet with the school superintendent. I’m ready to sue the bastards. “You will not search nor interview my son, nor any other minor for alleged criminal activity without the express consent of the parents.”

She understood, and she agreed. But then she said this: “Most parents don’t say a word. Most think the police can do what they want.” They can’t. Every day you need to remind yourself, this isn’t a police state; this is America. And if we’re going to get the old lump in the throat and talk about what a “blessed” country this is, it’s high time we require government to live up to its founding ideals.

The police in Ferguson can pull out MRAPs, they can set off tear gas, they can arrest reporters, but they can’t explain why an unarmed black teen with his hands up is dead; and, they can’t explain why the shooter is on paid administrative leave.

Black and white. How many more Fergusons must there be? How many more black teens have to be gunned down before white families say “that could be our son?” How many more MRAPs need to be let loose in small towns across this country before we say enough?

About two weeks after the Styrofoam cup incident I saw Ferguson. He’d been reassigned from the pods to the attorney visiting area. He wasn’t the same. He couldn’t figure out why the kid lashed out at him. I saw that same look with the white cops the other night demanding that the crowds disperse in Ferguson. Their guns drawn, fear and apprehension in their faces, they couldn’t understand why so many black people walked by, hands in the air, shouting “don’t shoot.”

It’s time we figured it out; it’s time for an end to hoodlums running amok because we are divided into white America and black America, and the militarization of local police. It’s time to stop seeing America in black and white.