Baltimore Riots: Do You See What I See?

Overtime, the girl not only hates her father for the pain, anguish, and suffering he has imposed on their family…but she also grows to resent her mother.  For being weak.  For being submissive.  For lying to friends, family, and co-workers.  For making excuses for his behavior. For being naïve thinking things would magically get better. For allowing her daughter to be exposed to this…put through this.  Fast-forward 25 years later, and here sits the woman…weeping in the corner of her bedroom, curled in a ball, face and mind numb from the most recent drubbing her husband had given her not 10 minutes ago.  She hates herself for becoming the woman she said she would NEVER be…her mother once told her that her Grandmother was the same way. Thinking about this made her sob even heavier. 

With no money of her own, a dead-end job, and no family or friends to turn to for a safety net so she can escape and start fresh, the familiar feeling of hopelessness starts to sink in.  Through her own sobs, she hears a small whimper from across the room.  She slowly looks up, and sees her daughter standing at the bedroom door.  It was like looking in a mirror, only 25 years ago…Her daughter, only 7, had the same look of fear and disdain on her face that she once had for her mother, the polarizing mix of emotions evident behind the tears in her eyes.

Suddenly… the years of helplessness, fear, and frustration emulsify into calculated yet primal, instinctive rage.  The woman beckons her daughter to come over to her, and she complies.  The mother warmly embraces her daughter, gently wiping her tears away, and apologizes for allowing her to see such terrible things.  The mother picks her daughter up and carries her back to bed, tucking her in and lovingly kissing her on her forehead, reassuring her that everything will be ok.

Hours later, the woman slowly emerges from the darkness of her bedroom, hands trembling, covered in blood.  In her right hand is a butcher knife, which she drops on the ground.  There’s a bewildered look of satisfaction and relief on her face.  She calmly sits down on the couch, and calls dials 9-1-1.  She informs them that her husband is dead, and she is the one who killed him.  She closes her eyes and slowly smiles, as she pictures her daughter,  25 years from now…happily married to a loving, nurturing man, who never puts his hands on her, or their daughter – her granddaughter.

The story above is a bit dramatic-and traumatic…but maybe it’s absolutely appropriate.  I personally think it’s a good analogy that depicts the bi-product of generations of systematic oppression, racism, classism, belittlement, disenfranchisement, barbarism, inequality, and subhuman treatment…simmering until it finally boils over in violent, impulsive, ways, as is what took place in Baltimore a few days ago.

We’ve all know or have heard of women in abusive relationships.  Some people think they are dumb for staying, or can’t wrap their head around why someone would subject their self to that abuse… or why someone could hurt another or take a life in a blind rage.  Some are empathetic.  Some even ignore it, saying it’s not their business.  But almost ALL who are in a position to do something to help that woman, do little or nothing.  Similarly with oppression and racism, most of us with the power to help things get better either don’t know, don’t care, ignore it thinking it’s not our problem, or the worse reason – think that somehow the oppressed are at fault and should have the means and wherewithal to change their circumstances on their own.  That, my friends, is what is called blind privilege.  When a predominately white group trashes their campus because their team lost a championship game – flipping over and burning cars, breaking windows and stealing from local business – I see and hear very few people comparing their acts to barbarism.  They chalk it up to drunk, unruly kids taking things too far.  “Why are they destroying their own tea?” is never a question posed when discussing the Boston Tea Party upheaval.  Americans were tired of being taxed by Britain and the Sons of Liberty, led by Sam Adams, went ballistic, destroying almost 2 million dollars’ worth of tea.  They were Patriots. They catalyzed the revolution.  They were brave for standing up for injustice. Really?  They were tired of another country digging in their pockets, like gangs making local business owner pay a tariff.  Give me a break.  

People, for the most part, are not critical thinkers.  We take things at face value, accepting what we are shown and told, without ever looking a little deeper.  We look at the EFFECT, rather than analyzing…I mean REALLY analyzing…the CAUSE.  The Baltimore riots, in some ways, are this generation’s million man march, Black Panther Movement, Walk-on-Montgomery. At face value, rioting doesn’t seem very pragmatic or logical, but most acts of rage and frustration are not rooted in pragmatism.  Riots usually begin with incidents where some injustice is done…usually the unwarranted killing of a citizen by law enforcement – this case, Freddie Gray.  As a result, deep-seeded resentments and repetitive frustrations of similar incidents galvanize people into action. There is strength in numbers, and mob provides cover - an anonymity that makes it easier to overcome one's usual reserved nature, and sense of morality.  Similar to the shared energy at a sporting event or concert, the feeling of intense belonging mixed with pent up emotions is contagious, almost viral.  I’ve witness this feeling on both ends of the spectrum…like when people storm the court after an underdog hits a buzzer-beater – or when a young man is murdered in cold blood with an ice tea and Skittles in his possession… and the assailant walks away scott free.

The lines between rioting and the makings of a revolution are blurry and skewed, depending on what lens you are watching it from… as well as what side of the periscope you are peering through.

As a man of color who has never been arrested, in trouble, abide by and respect the law and law enforcement, I know all too well the deep-rooted rage that boils inside, as I have been stopped and interrogated by a police officer several times.  Luckily, none of my encounters have escalated and become excessively confrontational, but I recall one incident in particular when I was about 20 years old. I was driving my sisters Acura Legend, and it was beautiful… champagne color, bass pumping through the speakers, sitting on 20 inch rims.  I was the site coordinator for a youth camp, overseeing 6 employees and about 80 six – eight year olds...furthest thing from a drug dealer or a thug.  I had on cargo shorts and damn camp t-shirt for God’s sake.  All that being said, I was very cognizant of the car I was driving in addition to the color of my skin, so I was always EXTRA careful when I had her car – hands on 10 and 2, music at a moderate level, tinted windows down – and on that day, none of those things mattered….

I pulled up to the light on the corner of State Street and Main Street, and I saw two white officers sitting in their car, talking.  As soon as they saw me and our eyes met, I knew that I was going to be pulled over. A that time, you could turn right on red, but just to do everything in my power to avoid being pulled over, I waited until it turned green, and then proceeded to take a right turn on to Main Street to find parking and get lunch.  The officers turned on their sirens, ran the red light, and signaled for me to pull over.  There were no parking spots on Main Street during lunch time, so I proceeded one block up so I could take a right onto the next side street as to not impede traffic.  When they approached my car, they asked me why I didn’t pull over immediately.  When I explained that there was nowhere to pull over on Main Street, he looked me right in my face and said, “We had our sirens and lights on following you for three blocks, and the reason why you couldn’t hear us is because your hip-hop music was too loud.”  What. An. Audacious. Lying. Son-of-a-bitch.  Although I was boiling on the inside, I gathered myself, took a deep breath, and responded, as calmly as I could, “Sir...  We clearly made I contact only one block ago, and I anticipated you would pull me over.  As a result, I immediately turned my music OFF when I saw you, so that it couldn’t be used as an excuse to pull me over.  Basically, you saw a young black man in a car that I shouldn’t be able to afford, and presumed I was a drug dealer.  I haven’t broken any laws, and whatever ticket you give me I’m going to refute – Officer [I forgot his name].”

He looked at me smirked, and said, “Oh…so you’re a smart ass, huh?”  He asks for my license and registration, goes back to his car for what seems like an excessive length of time (probably just to screw with me). He calls for backup I guess, which happened to be an officer on a horse [funny as hell, right?].  He hops down, and comes over peering into the back seat, as if looking for something.  I kept my eyes on him the whole time, in case they tried to plant some drugs or something in the car.  The other officer  then comes back with a ticket for “disturbing the peace” or something like that for $50.00.  He smiles, tells me have a nice day, and they both leave.  After I was sure they were gone, I was overwhelmed with so many emotions that I started pounding the steering wheel, screaming and crying.  You mind your business, you are kind to others, you do all of the right things, you try to be respectful of the law and law enforcement…and they still fuck with you simply because you are black. Or you are brown. Or you have tinted windows. Or rims. Or live in this neighborhood. Or have cornrows. Or “fit the description of a person of interest”.  That outpouring of uncontrollable frustration - being helpless, powerless, voiceless…it felt like I was drowning and couldn’t breathe, and there was nothing anyone could do to save me, because the stifling was mental, emotional, and identity-based.  So…although I didn’t get out of my sister’s car and start bashing it in and tearing up surrounding cars and shop windows – I can understand the place where the physical manifestation of that repressed rage comes from.  

As I got older and my network of friends expanded, I’ve had the opportunity to share this story with many of my white friends, and none of them have experienced this, or can never truly understand why men of color get nervous as hell anytime we see an officer. Generations of systematic oppression, mistreatment and profiling will do that to you. [Black man à officer = slave à overseer].   Some of them have even implied that I embellished my story for dramatic appeal… Of course, I checked their asses, and they apologized and attributed their ignorance and insensitivity to inebriation.  I’ve always been told that alcohol is somewhat of a truth syrum…

I guess the last component that I wanted to address that I think impacts our agenda adversely is our inability to understand the mentality and experience of the privileged.  Now, I don’t say this as if to imply empathy…but to truly make strides collectively, we can’t always take the ‘you owe us’ stance when trying to change perceptions.  Minorities in America, too, take for granted our own privilege.  How many times have we seen a commercial of a 3rd world country, with starving brown faces, protruding ribs, flies all around them, drinking dirty water, and turn the channel?  Thought - not intentionally, but in our subconscious – they aren’t like me. They are primitive.  I’m educated. They are different.  I’m civilized. We are not the same.  It’s not my problem. More disdain than empathy.  More disgust than compassion.  We share the same skin and ancestral lineage, but subconsciously we disconnect and disassociate ourselves from them.  We classify them as lesser than us in our psyche, but not outwardly… and why?  If you look at comparatively, we are the equivalent of the privileged and they are the oppressed, yet we would deny it.  That, my friends, is OUR blind privilege.  We don’t even have to go across the Atlantic to observe it.  We do it in our own country, amongst our own people.  Affluent people of color vs. non-affluent people of color.  Light-skin vs. dark-skin.  Straight Hair vs. natural/kinky.  Cornrows and tats vs. business suit and briefcase.  Constantly pre-judging, stereotyping, and putting each other in neat little boxes an assigning arbitrary attributes without looking beyond the superficiality of this practice.  We expect white people to be born apologetic for the transgressions of their forefathers, but when they come in this world they are a blank slate.  Most parents aren’t going to tell their kids that their race fucked over millions of brown and tan people, that they have a 500 year head start on an entire race of people(s), and the books in which they are exposed to certainly are not going to depict white people as vile… so how would they know?

Just as most minorities are born into poverty, oppression, and a system that is not conducive to success, many of those considered privileged are born into the opposite.  They didn’t ask for it, they were born into it… so they too, are products of their environment and oblivious to the plight of others, as we aren’t privy to the inner-workings of their world or experiences.  We are angry with the 17 year old whose parents are wealthy and provided them with everything they desired (great education, safety, resources).  What else would they know, but that?  No one knows something until someone tells them, teaches them, or the stumble upon it.  To expect people collectively – ANY PEOPLE – white, black, green - to innately seek out the wrongdoings and inequality in the world is a silly expectation, just like we [people of color] are not running to the library or sitting down with a native African to understand why children are carrying semi-automatic weapons, factions within their countries have been entangled in bloody civil wars for decades, or why an old piece of moldy bread to us is salvation to them.  Education, empathy, and transparency are instrumental to both sides moving closer to understanding and acceptance.

In summation, people should take a little time to analyze the cause before you pass judgement on the effect.