By Ron J. Williams
The system has failed us. Or perhaps it’s finally been given a chance to assert the truth we didn’t want to hear: black lives don’t matter as much as others to those in power. And that truth has been writ large this year. It has been underscored by the sheer unbelievability of the circumstances under which black men and boys may be killed without consequence. Without justice. Without even so much as a trial to shed light on the murky corners of witness retellings and police misremembering … even if only to exonerate wrongly accused good cops.
Lethal force for non-felony offenses? No problem. Illegal use of lethal force on an unarmed man? No problem. Lack of clear and present mortal danger? No problem. It is officially open season and even with a camera in your face recording you killing another human you’re safe from justice.
The system has failed us. Or perhaps it’s finally been given a chance to assert the truth we didn’t want to hear: black lives don’t matter as much as others to those in power. And that truth has been writ large this year. It has been underscored by the sheer unbelievability of the circumstances under which black men and boys may be killed without consequence. Without justice. Without even so much as a trial to shed light on the murky corners of witness retellings and police misremembering … even if only to exonerate wrongly accused good cops.
Lethal force for non-felony offenses? No problem. Illegal use of lethal force on an unarmed man? No problem. Lack of clear and present mortal danger? No problem. It is officially open season and even with a camera in your face recording you killing another human you’re safe from justice.
These faces of black boys killed by cops in this country haunt me. They’re my face at 15, 19, 21 and maybe even now.
But for some of us, maybe it doesn’t feel that personal. So I want to know what we will all do when it is not somebody else’s black boy or man, but yours. Your best friend. Your first love. Your husband. Your bi-racial son. Your godfather. Your co-worker. Your boss. Your professor. Your exceptional negro. Your pedigreed, successful, totally approachable, fairly reasonable wouldn’t hurt-a-fly black men.
Yes, I’m talking to ALL of us.
I’m talking to my amazing friends who poured into Times Square last night. To my hacker friends PMing me to say they’re ready to scream and want to build something to do something to stop something to start something to shut this fucking madness down. And I’m even talking to my people who’ve gotten on planes to get on the ground to be the change and support in #Ferguson. I love you all. And I’m asking. #WhatifItWasMe? What would you be willing to do after? What would you be willing to do to prevent that?
And I’m also talking to my Facebook posters who’ve been playing devil’s advocate and want to talk about stolen Swisher cigars. And I’m talking to the folks who advocate for cops and say it’s a tough job. No shit. Still no carte blanche justification for lethal force. System still broken. Right now I love you a little less but I’m talking to you too and want to love you again. #WhatifItWasMe? What would you say? What would you do?
I could share stories. I could share the many times I’ve been stopped by cops as both a stupid teenager and a (slightly less—I hope) stupid adult. I could tell you how a transit officer threatened to put a “9mm hole in my lung” for asking him why he was stopping me at 14. I could tell you about the time an officer misunderstood a large vocabulary word (guilty as charged for verbal flexing) I used in explaining that I didn’t know about a skateboard rule…which resulted in him repeating it incorrectly back to me and threatening to take me downtown for disrespecting him.
One misstep. One wrong answer. One wrong mood. And I wouldn’t have been your college roommate, friend, frienemy, lover, collaborator, wolfpacker, husband, uncle, boyfriend, best friend, imperfect friend. Your Ron J. It could have been me.