Stuck between Black and Blue
Pulling into the gas station in the south Chicago suburbs this morning, my daughter and I saw the police approaching a young man. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties and was tall and slender but, at the same time, solid. He had his hands in the air, screaming inaudible words but his pain permeated my core. An officer gripped the man’s arms from behind and brought him to the ground. His long frame flipped upside down. My daughter began a frantic cry. “Momma, don’t let them kill him”. As tears of terror flooded her face, the innocence of being nineteen was no more. I stopped my car in the middle of the gas station parking lot and she jumped out, pure protective instinct on fire, and bolted toward the scene to check on him. I kept my eyes trained on the young man and the officer that held him. He didn’t resist the officer’s grip as cold metal cuffs were clasped onto his wrists behind his back and he was pulled to his feet like a hog being taken to roast. I caugh