Thoughts on Alton and Philando
- Donald L. Daniel III
- Aug 13, 2016
- 3 min read
As a preface: This is a piece that was written earlier this year (2016). I never published it or submitted it anywhere. I don't know exactly why. Maybe my soul was subconsciously waiting for The Tangled Thread to become an idea and a reality. Maybe I grew weary of watching the list of names grow. Well, I waited. Here we are at launch, and this piece is here waiting for the eyes of readers. Thank you for taking the time to visit us here where we try and give voice to the voiceless. Now, without further ado, here we go. Welcome to The Tangled Thread...
Alton Sterling, Philando Castille. Earlier in summer of 2016, these two names were added to the massive granite memorial fused to the hearts of Black America. The Wall of the Silent holds the names of those who's lives have been taken without the advantage of justice. Their souls cry out to the only country that they have ever known for someone, anyone to spark meaningful change. They cry out to the country that viciously stamps out movements geared toward equality in justice while allowing the existence of the KKK and the National Socialist Party. They cry out to those of us who exist in the here and now to stand up for what is right -- to somehow lend validation to yet another otherwise senseless death.
I awoke that summer morning to the video of Alton Sterling's murder permeating the feeds on my social media networks. My first emotion was not anger (that came later). Rather, the first thing I felt was a preemptive sense of revulsion, not at the act itself, but at the reaction that I anticipated would come from the segment of White America that chooses to remain blind to the fact that the experiences of Black and White America aren't on equal footing. Imagine that for a second. You literally just watched someone DIE, and your first thoughts are not for the deceased or his family, but for how people you consider friends are going to try and justify it, and the massive lack of justice that will soon follow. I knew that I was in for a long few days on the emotional roller coaster that I am forcefully strapped into every single time someone that looks like me loses their life at the hands of the very police officers whom we pay for protection. As my stomach continued it's Olympic-caliber tumbling run, White America did not fail to disappoint, the apologists and "experts" offering analysis came out of the wood work exactly on cue with their dismissive diatribes, and victim blaming.
While my eyes, ears, and heart were all still reeling from the people who continually misunderstand that even those on the wrong side of the law have rights, the very next morning there was yet another video; another death at the hands of the police. This time the deceased was a lunch person at a local school, beloved by students and faculty. This time the deceased did everything you are taught to do when in contact with the police. Castille informed the officer that he was carrying. He kept his hands in view until he was asked for identification. He told the officer that he was reaching for his wallet.
He was shot dead in front of his daughter and girlfriend.
This time, a piece of me died along with my brother. I could barely function at work that day, because calling in Black is not a thing.
I have always instinctively known that if I ever find myself in a situation with a police officer, I could be breathing my last breaths. I knew that I could do everything right and still end up dead, and that my death would more than likely not receive the justice that so many in our society take for granted. Here was concrete evidence that made a glass desert of the lie of respectability politics. A mere month later a meme pops into my social media newsfeed that says, “It's not about race. It's how you present yourself.” I died again. Seriously. How many times can I die this year?
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