STRUGGLE for JUSTICE
Walker: Why do I love my country but at the same time hate it so much?
Across the nation, people are fixated on videos that show the deaths of two unarmed black men and the protests that have erupted because of them.
But for many in the black community, it is about what you don’t see that helps drive the anger and rage behind them.
I was 17 years old and in a backroom storage area of a clothing store on Market Street in downtown Newark, N.J.
My face was stinging with humiliation and I was fuming with rage at the embarrassment I had just endured.
An officer had just pretty much strip-searched me in front of the store security guard and two other employees because they thought I had stolen merchandise, despite a receipt in the bag for the item I had purchased.
The reason? I had entered the
store along with another black customer, who turned out to be a thief. Of course, they did not find any stolen items on me and I failed to understand what they thought I had stuffed down my pants.
I don’t recall what I said to the officer, but readers of my column know I am not shy about stating my opinion when I am right.
But it did cost me.
A joint magically appeared on the opposite side of the room. It was attributed to me, an impossibility as I had been in their presence since I was stopped at the front door when leaving.
I was hauled off to Newark City Jail — at least that is what we called it.
The officer put me in general lockup. Looking back, I must have resembled an out-of-control actor in a scene as I grabbed the bars, called him a bunch of names and screamed at him that I had committed no crime.
The officer walked back and put his face close to the bars and said:
“That’s why you’re in here. You have too much mouth.”
He then walked away. That did shut me up — and for exactly the reason he wanted me to know. I knew in that moment that he believed that he, not I, was in control of my life.
And I understood as long as he wore that uniform, he had the power to change my life — and there was nothing I could do about it.
That happened on the Friday of Memorial Day weekend of 1971. It is a matter of public record so you may look it up. I didn’t have a criminal record then, and I don’t have one now.
And yes, I was a juvenile in adult lockup — and what I witnessed during that weekend, I will probably write about one day.
But that is why, to this day, it is very hard for me to accept a police officer’s version of what happened during an arrest without conclusive evidence. To me, that must be visual.
I don’t think my story is any different than the many stories you don’t hear about when black men encounter bad cops.
When I see the images of the nation being torn apart because of the murder of George Floyd, I keep wrestling with the same question over and over: Why do I love my country but at the same time hate it so much?
By now, even the most skeptical American must know that the growing protests against police brutality acknowledges that black people have not been crying wolf when we say we need help.
What a relief.
That is why I urge protesters across this country to rattle the sky with their voices and let their footsteps shake the ground with fury to rid the monsters in blue that exist within our police departments.
I urge them to break down that wall of systematic racism until it lies in the gutter where it belongs and the Devil can reach up and drag it home.
But I urge them to do it peacefully and understand: what you tear down will not only take decades to rebuild, it will erase the names of the people for whom you march in protest from the headlines, and the conversation will detour from systematic racism to rioting and looting.
I was there when that same anger exploded over Newark due to — what else? — the beating of a black man. He was a cab driver named John William Smith and his crime was passing police cars that were double-parked.
Just like now, fire and smoke filled the air, anger was in the eyes, and fists were clenched in rage.
It is not only the blatant murders of unarmed blacks, but the ongoing psychological slap from law enforcement that it is the one that delivers justice.
Let me give you an example of what I mean from my black perspective.
Peter Manfredonia, a 23-year-old white man, allegedly killed one man with a machete and shot and killed another man; and police say he wounded another man, held another man hostage, stole his truck and guns before forcing a woman into her car and driving to another state.
He led police on a sixday, four-state chase carrying a duffel bag of suspected weapons, with authorities issuing alerts to the public to stay away — he was armed and extremely dangerous.
Yet, that man was captured alive and brought in to let justice take its course. And already, the spin about his mental health is on.
Now contrast with Floyd, who “allegedly” may have been involved in buying a pack of cigarettes with a counterfeit $20 bill, according to published reports, which also say he had a criminal history.
And for those who say the reason for Manfredonia’s peaceful capture is that he gave up, I say to them, what do you think “I can’t breathe” means?
America’s symbolic message is unmatched and unequaled by any other country and is the most powerful lure I know — but the price is the systematic racism it allows.
I still believe in law and order; I just wish it believed in me.
As a columnist, I do have police officers who respond to the many issues I write about. And over the years as we have gained trust, we have been open and honest (I hope) about our thoughts, ideas and feelings on policing, police brutality and the black community.
That includes the slogan Black Lives Matter, which confuses many people when they witness blackon-black crime.
But one has nothing to do with the other. BLM is about police brutality against blacks. Period.
One police officer, who I know is a good cop, wrote to me how angry he is that he and other police officers are being judged by the actions of Officer Derek Chauvin, charged in Floyd’s killing, an officer he agrees should spend his life in jail.
Oh man, do I hear his voice; I understand exactly how he feels.
My entire life has been spent in a boxer’s stance throwing jabs and uppercuts and an occasional knockout at stereotypical images I inherited as a black man.
But just like I came to acknowledge there were bad black men, I also came to acknowledge there were good cops.
And that is how the black community at large feels.
If anyone doubts that, just witness the black men who locked arms with a white man to protect a stranded officer against an angry mob.
And if I knew it was the good cop coming my way, I could relax my defenses.
But we, as black people, know we take our chances even though in most cases, it turns out OK.
Once again, the country is on fire over the horrible and needless death of an unarmed black man.
But it took his death, the outcry over the death of Ahmaud Arbery, and videos that emerged of those deaths to learn about Breonna Taylor, a 26-year-old EMT worker who was shot dead in the middle of the night in her home in Kentucky by police.
Now a light is shining on a list of names — and the systematic racism that presided over their deaths — and the number of protesters multiply by the day.
It is a good sign, because this country can’t move forward when the past is the barrier in front of it.
But so far, that past has proven to be immovable.
Unrest? It’s what you don’t see that matters.