This is a sober and sobering moment. I don’t know what I can say that hasn’t already been said, but I shall speak anyway because I must and I can.
I am a woman of Caribbean heritage living in London who wouldn’t normally refer to herself as Black (a topic for another time), but who today is claiming that label to stand in grief with the spirit and in the memory of George Floyd; feeling grief yes, and appalled at the fact and the manner of his murder.
Unfortunately, devastatingly, as New York Governor Andrew Cuomo acknowledged on 29th May in his by-no-means-exhaustive roll-call, this is not an isolated incident. Add to this list Trayvon Martin, Philando Castile, Botham Jean (shot in his own home while eating ice cream on his sofa) and so many others. This was not the first time a Black man had died in the full light of day as a result of suffocation saying “I can’t breathe” (Eric Garner whose slow death in 2014 was also filmed). This was not the first time a witness (the girlfriend of Philando Castile) had urged the police, in vain, not to kill.
So often in these cases the defense of ‘being in fear for my life’ and needing to make a split second decision is used. However, as the Mayor of Minnesota so movingly acknowledged, the perpetrator and those ‘officers’ with him had 300 slow seconds in which to make a different decision before the life drained out of George Floyd’s body . The length of time the whole despicable act took to play out, the illegal method of restraint used, the blatant disregard for the fact that it was a human being handcuffed and pinned to the ground by a knee on his neck, the sheer callousness of it all seem to have coalesced to create a sense of international outrage. None of the four ‘officers’ involved seemed to have any concern that there would be repercussions. This is scandalous. It’s shocking. It’s almost beyond belief. If they felt able to commit such an act in public, I can’t even begin to imagine what they’ve done, or would feel entitled to do, in private. Could they really believe that they had the right to act in this way? It would seem so. But how so? How on earth in the 21st century in a supposedly civilized society could such thinking exist at all, let alone in the minds of those who are supposed to be defenders and protectors of the people? What hatred had these men internalized? What process of dehumanisation had they been exposed to?
There are those who’ll argue that the killings are isolated incidents and that this is what happens when people don’t cooperate with the police when they’re being arrested. We don’t know what happened prior to the video being filmed they argue and, by implication, they might have brought it on themselves. To those people I say, the principle of ‘reasonable force’ exists for a reason. In addition, I’d ask: Why are Black men disproportionately represented and deceased in encounters with the police, not to mention incarcerated? Just unlucky? Inherently more criminal perhaps? Could there be explanations for what you see in front of you that don’t involve blaming the ‘victim’?
I can look at the perpetrators with anger and disbelief for what they did and allowed to happen (compassion for their evident misery and disconnection from their own humanity might come later), yet it’s clear that the problem does not exist solely at the level of the individual.
From my perspective, this devaluing of the lives of Black people, and men in particular, points to a much wider issue — one of endemic and barely disguised fear. Consider the long history of the treatment of African-American men from slavery since. If you haven’t already, I urge you to watch Ava du Vernay’s film ‘13th’ which documents the centuries-long characterization of African American men as animalistic, criminal, and threatening, particularly to White women. It also reveals the shocking and seamless transition from a system of slavery to one of mass incarceration. The title references the 13th Amendment to the US Constitution which abolished slavery and involuntary servitude except as punishment for a crime. Enter the criminalisation and subsequent mass incarceration of African American men as a source of cheap labour and as commodities for the highly profitable industrial prison complex.
The fabric of our institutions’ policies and practices has been woven from the threads of that history; our collective and individual perceptions have been shaped by the institutions we interact with and have been acculturated by — whether education, the economy, law, the media or any other. If we understand culture to mean ‘this is the way we do things around here, the way we see and think’ — in other words, these are our shared expectations and assumptions — then all those who’ve been raised in the West, certainly in the US and the UK, regardless of skin colour, have been conditioned to see and think of Black men as threatening, aggressive, as criminal and as of less value. And unless there’s an opportunity for some other input to interrupt the sense that ‘this is how it is’, that perception will be reinforced through confirmation bias, and will persist.
Amy Cooper exemplified this attitude just days ago when she calculatedly called the police on Christian Cooper, a Black man who was bird-watching in Central Park and who asked her (politely in case anyone’s wondering) to put her dog back on the leash. Even though she was in the wrong, she knew she could use the code ‘African American man’ and be fully understood when telling the police she was being threatened. She was so aware of the power of her words and of her relative position as a White woman, that she told Christian Cooper what she was going to do before making the call. So much for feeling threatened. Fortunately, the only outcome in that instance was that she lost her job and her dog; no one lost their life.
You might not be surprised to hear that this perception of Black men is mirrored here in the UK. There’ve been riots here too over the years sparked by outrage and frustration at the deaths of Black men in police custody. Negative representations are so ubiquitous that the need was felt to set up 56 Black Men. This brilliant initiative aims to change the dominant narrative by lobbying for change and making visible the stories of the overwhelming majority of ordinary men who are leading regular lives as fathers and husbands, sons, brothers, uncles and friends — the stories we don’t get to hear that demonstrate their strapline “I am not my stereotype”.
While the mechanisms of oppression, whether related to colour or class or gender, are built into the structures and policies of our institutions, the paradox is that they require individuals to enact them. Therefore, I see individuals as the solution — or in part at least. It’s only when we pause long enough to have uncomfortable conversations, and face the fear, guilt and shame that arise, that we have an opportunity to be more conscious, to think more deeply and to consider: What does it mean to have been racialised as Black/ White/ any other Colour? What’s expected of me? How have I been socialised to view ‘the other’? And is what I think true? Does seeing each other through the lens of Colour reduce us in any way? And beyond that, what does it mean to be human? What does it actually mean? And does that knowledge call me to either reinforce existing behaviours or make changes in my daily decisions and interactions? How can I interact with young Black men and boys in such a way that they see their worth reflected in my face and actions rather than the fear or negativity they so often encounter?
The solutions to the process of dehumanization that allowed George Floyd’s brutal murder will be multi-faceted, but if we do nothing else, each one of us can ask ourselves in quiet reflection how we can help, and perhaps this collective enquiry and consequent action will become the turning point of transformation that will be the legacy of George Floyd.
Writing this felt like an important act. It’s said that the pen is mightier than the sword and it’s my hope that this article will find its way where it’s needed, that it creates pause for thought, that it contributes to even a handful of people opening their eyes, and their minds and hearts wider still to wonder: What is love calling from me? What small or big change can I make to be part of the solution? Once the oscillating anger and grief I’m feeling have abated, I shall ask myself the same questions and see what else love for humanity would have me do.
Jennifer Bright is a life coach, interviewer and writer on social justice, human potential and personal fulfillment.