I am deeply disappointed by the decision not to indict Officer Darren Wilson by the St. Louis grand jury last night.
I am not altogether surprised, but I am not surprised in the same way that I am no longer surprised to find that another woman has been abused or raped. This systemic violence permeates our society in a way that reeks of the banality of evil. The racial history of the United States is steeped in deep mires of racism, genocide, oppression, injustice, and prejudice — so much so that it is easy to become desensitized to the destructive nature of this beast.
But it is not really a beast. It’s more like a sleep. A refusal to awake to the harsh realities of real life and take responsibility for our contributions to a world of oppression faced by millions of American citizens every day.
I’ve been reading articles all day on how best to react, and how not to (by example in that case), and re-reading articles and books that taught me my first introduction into the history of racial oppression here in America. Anecdotes from the point of bewildered young black men, wandering the nighttime streets of their cities and been mistaken for muggers, who have taken to whistling the melodies of classical (white) composers to placate fellow night-walkers. Studies of white college students who have taken to sanitizing their racism by bracketing it within the “I’m not racist, but…” statement, and who continue to believe damaging and prejudiced stereotypes about people of color. Historical sociological research that, even in seeking to give voice to the often voiceless black population, reinforced cultural stereotypes that criminal behavior in impoverished black neighborhoods is the norm.
In the face of 400 years of systemic oppression, it is hard to remain peaceful, and, for different reasons, it is also hard not to. I certainly feel that the anger, disappointment, betrayal, and disenfranchisement people of color are feeling today is valid and deserved. But I won’t say it’s easy to get angry, because one thing my research has taught me is that it isn’t easy for black people to show emotion in a society that is paranoid and hyper-defensive of its guilt.
And this, perhaps, is what is most disappointing to me.
Yes, it is a huge blow to the American justice system that the St. Louis grand jury refused to indict Officer Wilson. And yes, the death of Michael Brown is a national tragedy. Both of these things highlight the way Americans of privilege perceive Americans of color, and underline the inhumanity of police-minority relations. If this ruling has shown anything, it’s that these prejudices run deep, deeper into our psyches than we are comfortable confronting.
However, both of these things (like I stated at the outset) were fairly unsurprising, which I fully admit is a tragedy in itself. But what is disappointing to me is that black Americans are unable to express their grief in the outrage and strong language their grief demands. Immediately, the media has taken to referring to protests in Ferguson (and elsewhere) as rioting, looting, violence undeserving of the purveyance of justice.
What I see in this is an insidious continuation of the silencing of people of color. By refusing these grieving communities to mourn not only for the loss of their children (because Michael Brown is not the only unarmed black teenager to be shot and killed by an authority figure this year), but also refusing them to mourn for the loss of their rights, the media and everyone participating in apologetic speech on behalf of Darren Wilson perpetuate an expectation that black people should not be heard–that their rage is violent–that their sadness is unwarranted and exaggerated–that their responses are somehow uncivilized.
I remember a discussion I had while in my undergrad about how President Obama could not allow himself to deviate from a very carefully constructed facade of calm poise during his campaigns, due to fear of the “angry black man” stereotype. His whole persona, right down to the construction of his sentences and pronunciation of his words, belied the blackness his skin couldn’t escape. The sanitized, placid appearance conveyed the same placation that Brent Staples discovered in his nighttime whistling. It’s the same sort of hands-up harmless projection that Daily Show comedians Michael Che and Jordan Klepper parodied in this segment (skip to 3:02 for pure poignancy).
It’s the same expectation American society has today, in the aftermath of a horribly unjust refusal to indict by a grand jury who only needed to determine if there was probable cause for Wilson to kill Brown. Media coverage of national outrage that now extends beyond just black and white watches protests and gatherings with a wary eye. They’re ready for it to become a reinforcement of the stereotypes they’ve been taught about gatherings with people of color.
But consider this: the violence that happens is not targeted at white people. What is targeted at white people is (at least for me) much more heart-wrenching: deep disappointment. When people loot stores and set fire to police cars, it is a symbolic release of chaos that rages within them at all times. It’s an inner rage pushed to the breaking point, and yet it is still directed at things instead of people. They have not targeted Darren Wilson en masse. Sure, there have been harsh words directed his way; but let’s not forget that words do not kill. Instead of breaking people, they’ve broken windows.
In the midst of an outrage that runs deeper than just Ferguson, or just St. Louis, or just New York, the people of color have allowed themselves to partake in a privilege we have denied them for centuries: the privilege of grieving in the way that their grief requires.
We don’t have to understand their pain to feel empathy. We don’t have to understand it to respect it.
And while I don’t think that’s even close to being enough, it’s the most I know how to do. I’ll show my solidarity with respect and empathy and a willingness to listen and learn from their experiences.
Wouldn’t you want the same?
Today I pray for understanding, for a willingness to use this not as an endpoint, but as an informing event in the long cycle of America’s becoming. I pray that the angry and grieving people find peace, and that those who are not angry find patience and empathy, and that those who are afraid find wisdom and discernment.
