Monday, May 29

The Grief That White Americans Can’t Share

The last thing I thought about when I closed my eyes that Wednesday night, July 6, was the bullet tearing into the flesh of Alton Sterling as he lay pinned to the ground beneath two Baton Rouge police officers.  I couldn’t get Mr. Sterling’s face out of my head — his chestnut skin  and gold teeth reminding me of my own uncles. The swiftness with which  his life was taken, broadcast on a loop like so many others over the  last few years, had shaken me. I slept a restless sleep.

When  my alarm went off at 6 a.m., I checked my Twitter feed, as I always do,  while still snuggled in bed. I read a few Twitter messages, then closed  my eyes, the hand holding my phone falling limply to my side.  Overnight, while I was sleeping, another video, of another police  killing, of another black man, in another American town, had gone viral.

I  lay in my bed for the next hour, unable to gather the will to get  dressed for the day. I turned the news on and listened as I read  everything I could.

I wrestled with  myself over whether to watch this video, too. I am a reporter and this  was news. I am a human being, a black woman in a country where black  death has long been spectacle.

I watched.

Each detail crushed me. Stopped for a broken taillight. Dead within minutes. The blood spread across Philando Castile’s white  shirt like a poppy in bloom. A 4-year-old child — just two years  younger than my own — in the back seat, bearing witness. A woman, live  streaming it all, her voice a terrified version of calm that I will  never in my life forget. I knew watching had been a mistake.

I  stayed stuck in bed another hour, wanting to wake my husband, who was  snoring lightly beside me, but deciding against it: Let him have a few  more moments of peace before waking to face another day in America where  a black man just died for a traffic violation.

Finally,  I pulled myself out of bed, showered, dressed and then sat down at my  vanity mirror. I looked into my own eyes. The despair peering back at me  was too much. Before I could stop them, the tears came. I sat there,  unable to look at myself again, crying into my hands.

I  needed to get to work, but the last thing I wanted to do was make small  talk about inane things with people for whom this might be a tragedy,  but an abstract one. To many white Americans, the killings of black men  and women at the hands of the state, are individual incidents, each with  a unique set of circumstances. For white people, who have been trained  since birth to see themselves as individuals, the collective fear and  collective grief that black Americans feel can be hard to grasp.

But  for black Americans like me, the killings of black men and women at the  hands of the state with no justice to be had, is among the oldest and  most familiar American stories.

How  do you explain the visceral and personal pain caused by the killing of a  black person you did not even know to people who did not grow up with,  as their legacy, the hushed stories of black bodies hung from trees by a  lynching mob populated with sheriff’s deputies? Or of law enforcement,  who often doubled as the Ku Klux Klan, killing black Southerners on  lonely roads under the gaze of a silent moon?

To  many of us, the almost guaranteed failure in modern times to hold the  police responsible for these deaths feels eerily familiar; black  Americans add these recent cases to the list of countless black people  who died a few generations ago “at the hands of persons unknown.”

But,  of course, this is not just about history and our disparate  recollections of it. It is about now, and the way the vast gulf between  the collective lived experiences of white Americans and that of black  Americans can make true empathy seem impossible.

How  do you explain — how can you make those who are not black feel — the  consuming sense of dread and despair, when one sees the smiling faces,  captured in photos, of Mr. Castile and Mr. Sterling, and knows that but  for the grace of God, it could have been your uncle, your brother, your  child, you? That if a police officer, his mind having soaked up  centuries of racial fears, were to stop your loved one, or you, he may  not be able to see a family man or doting mother? Someone who is not a  boogeyman, but someone whom, as Ta-Nehisi Coates so piercingly lays out  in “Between the World and Me,” parents, aunts and uncles, grandparents,  spouses, children and community had poured their love, hopes and dreams  into. Someone who pushed a daughter on the swing, hugged a fiancée after  an argument, told bad jokes.

How do  you explain that awful understanding that each of these deaths confirms  for black citizens, that if stopped by the police, we may be stripped  down to our most basic of elements, that one part of us that is a  complete fiction: our race. And that fiction — the American crime of  blackness — can turn a broken taillight into a death sentence.

The  last thing I wanted to do that day, and on many days, was face people  who did not, at a gut level, get this. My friends, also struggling to  leave their homes and head out into the world, reached out to me, and I  to them. We sent texts and Facebook messages. We grieved together,  trying to fill the hollow with love. Many people called into work that  day, unable to deal with the mundane in the face of a tragedy.

We’d  been here again and again, but somehow, this felt depressingly the same  yet also different. Even older black people, typically stoics from  weathering things my generation has not had to, found themselves, to  their alarm, crying as well.

Later I  would interview a man in Texas named Patrick Francis. He grew up in a  rough part of Houston, went to college to study criminal justice and  spent 10 years in law enforcement before switching to a career in  internet technology. This was not a man prone to displays of emotion.  Somewhat bewildered, the father of four grown sons, he explained that  he’d cried more than once following the two recent killings. And as he  recounted trying to talk his son down from the white-hot rage he felt, I  could hear emotion constricting Francis’s voice through the phone as he  apologized for his tears.

I picked  up my phone and called one of my dearest friends. As we talked, words  tumbled out in rapid spurts only to be consumed by long periods of  silence when we could find nothing to say. It was a familiar  conversation. One we’d had when Trayvon Martin died. When the video of Eric Garner came out. For Rekia Boyd. Tamir Rice. Aiyana Stanley-Jones. Walter Scott. Laquan McDonald.  The weight of all those names combined with the recent deaths, captured  on video without enough room in between to catch our breath, rendered  us hopeless and helpless. And then our sorrow turned to rage. Because we  knew, in just a matter of days, there would be another. It seemed as  inevitable as the sun rising.

Sorrow was debilitating, but anger fueled resolve. I hung up with my friend, washed my face, and headed into work.

That  same night, a black sniper took the lives of five Dallas police  officers during a protest against police violence. And then a little  more than a week later, another black man killed three police officers  in Baton Rouge. The mourning for these deaths, too, came wrapped in  another fear, shared by those who did not want violence against black  citizens or violence against the police: that, once again, the actions  of a few would be a smudge against us all; that the crimes of two  unstable men would derail a protest movement that sought only value for  black lives.

And I could not help but  think that this callous taking of life, the killing begetting killing,  had revealed a rupture. I am not sure it will ever be fixed.

Nikole Hannah-Jones is a staff writer for the New York Times. She won a 2016  Peabody Award for her series on school segregation for “This American  Life.” She is a Pulitzer Prize-winning reporter covering racial injustice for The  New York Times Magazine and creator of the landmark 1619 Project

Copyright © Nikole Hannah-Jones, New York Times Magazine.

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