Shame of Tyre Nichols’ killers is all theirs, and policing
Ican’t unhear the dying man’s fearful cries, or unsee the final brutal moments of his consciousness.
The moments when Tyre Nichols must have wondered why. Why five men — five Black men; five Black men wielding Memphis Police Department shields — were beating him unconscionably. Senselessly. Beyond what words are able to describe.
The moments when he knew. When he knew he was dead.
Mommmm!
I can’t unhear the dying man’s scream, as loudly as the strength draining from his slim body allowed. Scream for the woman who birthed him 29 years ago, who was in her home not far from where her son was in hell. On the corner of Castlegate Lane and Bear Creek Cove where the young Black man was savagely beaten, kicked, cursed and punched in the head while handcuffed, held and reeling for reasons only the Black men now charged with murdering him know.
I can’t unsee one of the Black men wind up like a slugger digging in at the back of the batter’s box and bolo-swing a baton at Nichols’ torso with all the strength his husky body allowed.
I can’t unhear yet another coward behind a shield saying, “I hope they stomp his ass.”
I truly can’t unsee the right cross that whiplashed Nichol’s head with such fierceness, I prayed he was too far gone to feel it.
Too far gone to feel the pain. Too far gone to feel.
You guys are doing a lot right now, I’m just trying to go home.
I can’t unhear that. Can’t unhear
Nichols’ reasoned voice just after being dragged from his car, and just before his mind was so choked with fear — fear of the Black men surrounding him — it told him: run. So choked with fear he outran a Taser’s juice. So choked with fear he risked being shot, as so many others were.
I still see the barrage of police batons wielded by ghostlike figures in black and white trying to fell a fallen Rodney King almost three decades ago.
I still see Derek Chauvin, still see the arrogance etched on his face as his right knee crushed George Floyd’s neck.
I still hear George Floyd scream for his mom, too. I think we all do.
Bitch, put your hands behind your back before I … I’m going to knock your ass the fuck out.”
Tadarrius Bean, Demetrius Haley, Desmond Mills Jr., Justin Smith and Emmitt Martin. Say their names, dammit.
“They brought shame on the Black community” is what Rowvaughn Wells, Nichols’ mom, shared with CNN’S Don Lemon about the five Black men who killed her son, just before videos of their evil acts were revealed. “By them being Black,” she added, “it hurt the Black community.”
With all respect for Wells, I’m not accepting their shame. Nor should we, our community. The shame of their deeds is theirs.
It belongs to Tadarrius Bean, Demetrius Haley, Desmond Mills Jr., Justin Smith and Emmitt Martin.
And the culture of policing, a culture that historically empowers brutally, then protects it with a shield.
We hurt for Tyre Nichols, not for them. Nor for any other Memphis PD officers or responders — including those who stood around for precious minutes while Nichols’ life dimmed — who will likely, rightfully, also be charged for their role in this unnecessary tragedy. Even if they did not swing a baton, hurl a kick or levy a roundhouse punch on a defenseless, dying man.
The hurt they all inflicted upon Nichols on that dark night in early January is a hurt they should each feel for the rest of their lives.
We hurt, still, for the young men, our neighbors, dying at the hands of our own.
What I didn’t hear, thankfully, was nary a note of defense of the former Memphis officers from the blue line. Police officials from around the nation, including Birmingham, unequivocally condemned the killing of Nichols.
Now, let’s see what they do. Let’s see if true, vital reform — from training to quick and unquestioned accountability to attacking the roots of policing — becomes the norm instead the anomaly it’s too long been.
As we begin this Black History Month, we’re grieving when we should be celebrating. Our gut is wrenched with anger when it should be overflowing with joy. With pride. With unquenchable love for those who endured, those who created, those who sacrificed, those who still — thank you, Maya Angelou — rise.
We are sadly, instead, reminded of the phrase popularized by novelist, essayist, filmmaker and anthropologist, by word goddess Zora Neale Hurston: All skinfolks
ain’t kinfolks. (Actually, in her autobiography, “Dust Tracks on the Road, she wrote: “My skinfolks, but not my kinfolks.”)
I’m just trying to go home.
We heard you, Tyre. Always will.