Growing up in a city I saw lots of graffiti, but one message sank into me. Words full of social despair, a betrayal so big, its reach seemed to stretch in all directions.
FUCK ALL Y’ALL
That spray-painted scrawl, reduced here to orderly type, was phrased as defiance but felt like naked pain writ large. If this was the message of a young black man, what became of him after? Did he somehow meet with a balm for his wounds?
This country is full of cities and towns and suburbs, shelters and tents and alleys, resounding with betrayal both voiced and unvoiced. Prisons and cemeteries. Desecration of human rights. Families broken, hearts riven with loss.
At a peaceful protest last week, we were asked collectively to take a knee, a gesture now haunted for me. A timer was set, 8 minutes and 46 seconds, so that we might understand more viscerally what a long time that is. Our breath filtered through masks. For an unimperiled crowd, 8 minutes and 46 seconds is restless. For cruelty, for terror, for torture, for murder, 8 minutes and 46 seconds is remorseless.
I haven’t watched that important video—for a number of reasons having to do with my personal feelings about privacy, dignity, media, and desensitization—but I saw a still of the man, an officer of the law, kneeling on George Floyd’s neck. That hand in that uniform pocket. Please, vote for sweeping change, and do all the good you can.
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