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 caught up to my baby girl and engulfed her in a hug that would bring little comfort to either of us. She repeated, “Don’t let them kill him.”  Her sadness stained my blouse and pierced my soul.  I felt something almost ineffable.  A cocktail of fear and fearlessness, pride and shame, duty, solidarity, the obligation to show up whole.  In that moment, I didn’t even know his name but he was my son, my brother.  I was his mother, his aunt, his grandmother, his sister.  

My mind raced and my heart drummed against my chest.  This can’t happen again – not today, not on my watch.  As much as I was protecting the nameless young man, I was caring for my daughter, for myself.  The fear of what could happen coupled with guilt of knowing I did nothing to affect the outcome was enough to transform my trepidation into courage, then action.  I marched close for a better angle of scene without “obstructing justice.”  By this time, the young brother was in hand cuffs and inside one of two police vehicles.  I needed to talk to him, let him know I was there, show him that he was not alone no matter how chaste or checkered his past might be.

The windows lowered.  The young man was still pumped with the adrenaline that comes with a forceful reduction to your lowest common denominator but still, his spirit was strong as he pleaded his case to the officer.  I couldn’t make most of out his words but I could feel his hurt when he asked “What did I do?” to which the officer seemed to have no response.  When their conversation ended, I called out.  “Young brother…”  The young man turned to me with a calm he hadn’t shown before.  “Yes”, he responded with softness and urgency that betrayed a fresh wound in need of healing.  His eyes, frightened and enraged yet simultaneously vulnerable and tender, left an indelible impression on my heart.  He was ruggedly handsome in a way that told me he had table manners but knew the streets well.

“Are you ok?” I inquired?

“Yes.”  He assured me though his eyes were painted red from the weight of unshed tears.

“What is your name?” 

He responded with renewed pride, “Steven”. 

“Your last name?” I pressed. He told me.  “Ok brother, I’m going to reach out to your family on Social Media” I promised. 

Steven had a better idea. “Can you call my momma?”

“Yes, what’s her number?” 

Steven belted out his mother’s phone number “7 7 3, 3 5 0…” like they were lyrics to his favorite song.  I didn’t have my phone in hand but instinctively repeated each number aloud.  When I looked back, the three other women in the gas station lot had come closer to me and were punching the numbers into their phones. Without being asked, they were helping me help him.  The solidarity was thick and comforting like a stew in the cold of winter.  We didn’t know each other or Steven but we were all his aunties.

“Her name is Sylvia.” Steven told us. 

“Ok.” I assured him.  “We’re calling her now.”

I had no perspective of Steven’s innocence or guilt but I knew Sylvia deserved to have her son and Steven deserved to live long enough to defend against any alleged crime.

Some may say I overreacted or that my actions were uncalled for.  I wondered the same to myself even as I took action.  It was as if two booming voices rattled in my head. Mind your own business. Girl, help him!  You nosy…  I followed the voice that insisted NO, NOT HIM.  We would not be chanting Steven R. through angry tears as we marched the streets holding up his baby pictures on dollar store poster board outside a courthouse that would acquit his murderers.  We would NOT be adding his name to the list of over 1000 black and brown unarmed souls snuffed out at the hands of law enforcement.  Not on my watch.

Historically, I have not been victim to or witnessed any police misconduct in my community yet, seeing officers approach my people stirs horror in me that stings like a thousand paper cuts on my heart.  I don’t doubt that the officers felt justified in the actions they took just as Steven R. felt he had the right to not be arrested.  I don’t know who is right, and don’t really care.  The truth likely lies between those two perspectives but I needed Steven to have a beating heart, to live.  Because HIS BLACK LIFE MATTERS. 

I am a law abiding citizen, I teach my children to respect laws and the officers that must enforce them.  Even with family and friends in law enforcement though, maintaining the appropriate level of respect for officers of the law becomes difficult when black and brown people being killed and harassed by these officers occurs frequently enough that it’s a nationwide trend.  It seems that every week it's a different city, a different soul lost, a different officer found “not liable”.  How is this even possible? 

As a black woman, a human, empty of tears, struggling against the numbness of apathy praying for justice and fairness, I ask...

Why do I feel stuck between black and blue?