“Which story do I share? That is the question.”
The deaths of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor and George Floyd have caused America, and the world, to talk about race — and in particular, how racism adversely affects the lives of African Americans living in the United States. It has prompted discussion. It has made people reflect. It has made people feel.
It also has led to acts of witness about what it means to be black in America — including much of the black staff of writers and editors at The Athletic. Talking with each other was, initially, a coping mechanism. A way to not feel isolated. But the discussions prompted more discussions, and stories — lots of them. It became clear that practically every one of us had faced that moment over the years: the one where all a certain person saw was skin color and not an actual human being. Many of us had gone through it multiple times, too many times to count.
Which led to: “which one?”
There was at least consensus on this: why keep this to ourselves? Why not share our experiences — with our subscribers, with other people of color and with our white colleagues here? What seems incredibly obvious to some will no doubt be newly illuminating to others who’ve enjoyed privilege without giving it a second thought throughout a lifetime. Because they’ve never had to.
By contrast, some of our lives were nearly ruined before they started. A long-since forgotten racial flex or seemingly harmless encounter for one white person may have scarred a person of color for life.
So, here are some stories we’ve decided to share, with the hope these details can educate and inform. Racism and racist behavior do not just happen when a cameraphone is recording, and they’re not just practiced by “rogue” or “bad apples” police.
What all of us gain from this? That’s another question.
On and off the court, seen as different
I received one technical foul in my entire childhood basketball career.
I was in the eighth grade when I matched up with a small, blond-haired point guard during one game. He wore a green No. 2. In the third quarter, I got a steal, and sprinted down the opposite end of the floor. As I went up for a layup, he contested me.
Mid-air, I heard him grunt, “Nigger!” This marked the first time I’d ever been called the n-word — a Christian youth league basketball game in Chino Hills, Calif.
I muscled through contact and hit an off-hand layup. (Should’ve been a foul.) Following the basket, in a fit of rage, I lashed out as much as I figured I could in that situation. No punches. Just a flex, a staredown and a very loud, “WHAT’S UP, 2?!”
Whistle. Technical foul, No. 4 in white.
My dad, my team’s coach, thought I’d just shown some emotion, but I was heated. I went to the sideline infuriated, explaining and pleading. It didn’t matter. I remember we won the game. I remember afterward, the kid’s mom had him apologize to me. He was suited up and playing for his team the next weekend, though.
I felt a jolt — that burning passion — throughout the following days. We had won. I had made the bucket. They had the kid cheaply reconcile with me. But it had been a moment where I continued wondering, was it worth opening my mouth? Did I get the justice I desired?
Fast-forward five years later. It’s December 2015, a year after Tamir Rice and Michael Brown were murdered.
It was 2 a.m. on a quiet, crystal clear night. I had just wrapped up my closing shift at WingStop. It was freezing, and all I’d worn was a long-sleeve black shirt beneath my black, sauce-stained WingStop button-up, some dark jeans and my black WingStop cap. My mom — bless her soul — often picked me up, even when I worked that late. But after a few unanswered calls, I’d determined I’d just walk the two miles home. It’d only take an hour, and it’s Chino Hills. Crime there, as far as I knew, consisted of middle-to-upper middle-class kids smoking weed and doing drugs, just like in many other sprawling suburbs.
I walked up Pipeline Ave., on the opposite sidewalk near the spot where Nnamdi Okongwu, the older brother of USC star Onyeka Okongwu, had suffered a life-ending brain injury in a skateboard accident. My hands were in my pockets because it was freezing. A police car zoomed by me. And in the split-second after I initially felt relief, the car braked and backed up.
In the middle of the road, the car turned, so it faced me. Suddenly the car’s brights were shining on me. I was frozen. Nobody was around. The cop started interrogating me over his intercom. Where are you going? What have you been up to?
I didn’t freak out. I didn’t remove my hands from my pockets. I just remember squinting into those lights and responding as politely as I’ve been programmed by my parents to respond. At some point, he shut the brights off, and some red light came on inside. I could see him. He asked me if I recognized him.
I thought I’ve never been arrested ever before in my life. Of course not. But I responded, “No, sir. I don’t.”
He chuckled and smirked. I was petrified. I don’t even remember what he said next to me; I just remember that he drove away shortly after. I was numb. Look, I’m only 5-foot-6 and about 130 pounds soaking wet. I know what it’s like to be small because I live it. But I’ve rarely, if ever, memorably been bullied. And there’s a different kind of shrunken feeling that sticks you when you get made to be small. In that situation, it’s a helpless feeling. The thought of is this going to be where you die? Is anyone out there to see this?
I took maybe five steps before my mother pulled up in her car. I can only imagine what would’ve happened if she’d arrived at a different result.
“I remember you crying,” she told me Thursday. Yeah, I remember, too. I also took to Twitter. I don’t think I slept that night.
Got pulled over while WALKING home tonight. Amazing. Absolutely amazing.
— Kaelen Jones (@kaelenjones) December 13, 2015
He drove by me, THEN DROVE BACK. He tried to joke and say, “Oh, you look familiar.” Then asked if I’ve ever been arrested. Are you serious?
— Kaelen Jones (@kaelenjones) December 13, 2015
I agree with this 100%. No reason they don’t. https://t.co/MoBmVnRSBq
— Kaelen Jones (@kaelenjones) December 13, 2015
@theyoungtimothy I froze man. I was pissed, scared and confused. I was in my goddamn work clothes walking home. Tf is he pulling me over for
— Kaelen Jones (@kaelenjones) December 13, 2015
@theyoungtimothy HE ASKED ME IF I’D EVER BEEN ARRESTED BEFORE. WTF ARE YOU GONNA ARREST ME FOR? Walking?!
— Kaelen Jones (@kaelenjones) December 13, 2015
Whenever murders occur like those of Trayvon Martin, Philando Castile and George Floyd, I wonder if that could have been me. It likely wouldn’t have. No one would’ve known that cop decided to harass me any more than he did. Instead, a few weeks later, I crowd-funded my way back to college.
Fast forward nearly another five years, and I’m writing this as an employee of The Athletic.
Fate is a wild thing. For now, I’ll live with the technical. I’ll live with a half-assed apology. But that’s a privilege I can acknowledge. I don’t, by any means, determine it enough. And I hope I live to see actual change and not worry about whether any kids I bring into this world have to worry about being murdered just because of the color of their skin.
Kaelen Jones, University of Texas reporter
A kneeling chat goes south
When I learned we’d be compiling a story about racial challenges faced by staffers from The Athletic, my mind immediately went to my various run-ins with police. Maybe I’d write about the traffic stop that resulted in my friends and I being ordered out of my car by five officers with guns drawn. Hey, maybe I deserved it. After all, my tag was expired! Or perhaps I’d recount the sheriff deputy in Georgia who accused me of moving drugs down Interstate 75 because my car “had a strong odor of marijuana.” The K-9 he summoned disagreed with him.
But I thought I’d instead take this opportunity to share a conversation at a hotel bar in Seattle that is as revealing as anything that happened in those police interactions.
I had traveled to Seattle to cover a Colts-Seahawks matchup in 2017. After an afternoon of sightseeing the day before the game, I retreated to my hotel in Bellevue and decided to have a nightcap at the bar. I was joined there by just one other guest. It was the weekend, and the hotel was quiet.
But that was about to change.
The other guest began making small talk, as is typical at a bar. I tend to avoid telling people what I do for a living, lest it results in them asking for free tickets (I’m only half kidding). Finally, I give it up: I’m a sportswriter, and I cover the NFL, I tell him. This gentleman saw this as an opening to ask about a subject that clearly was top of mind for him.
“What do you think about these football players kneeling during the anthem?” he asked.
I explained that I understood why some did not like it. But I also stressed that it was a form of non-violent protest and, since we live in America, what’s the harm? It turns out; he was never interested in what I thought. What he really wanted was to tell me how angry he was about these “assholes” who had the nerve to kneel. The conversation quickly became heated, and I tried to disengage, but then I let myself get sucked back in. I felt a need to set the record straight and at least point out why these players felt strongly about the protests. No, that’s isn’t my responsibility. But, honestly, I see myself in those players, so I tend to internalize the criticisms that are lobbed their way. Suffice it to say this individual was extremely close-minded, and my efforts were not rewarded. His comments grew ever more racist, to the point where I gave him a few choice (four-letter) words and walked away.
Before this incident, I was ready to sleep. That last whiskey was going to pave the way for a restful night ahead of a long workday the next morning. Or so I thought. Instead, I found myself stewing and frustrated when I returned to my room.
In retrospect, there were a few lessons. First, this man is an example of someone who claimed they were willing to listen but really had no intention of doing so. There are lots of others like him, which is one reason so many young people have taken to the streets: They do not feel like anyone is listening. Second, this was a great example of a burden black people often face, having to speak for or defend everyone who looks like them. That is a heavy burden that white Americans never face. And it’s exhausting. This is particularly true when you are in spaces where you tend to be one of the few minorities — like, for example, many newsrooms in America.
So, in summary, we can condemn the violence in the streets. But don’t forget to also listen to the grievances and try to understand them. These conversations don’t have to end like my little chat in Seattle.
Stephen Holder, senior writer, Indianapolis Colts reporter
Minneapolis tragedy brings back Ferguson’s pain
I was born and raised in Ferguson, Mo. Growing up, race wasn’t much of an issue as most of the people I saw in my neighborhood and at school looked like me. My only concept of racism came from my father, who came up in poverty during the Jim Crow Era and the Civil Rights Movement. To a degree, the countless anecdotes he told me would become my reality when Michael Brown was shot and killed by Ferguson police officer Darren Wilson on Aug. 9, 2014.
I wasn’t close with Brown, but we were the same age, both attended McCluer High School for our freshman and sophomore years and were products of the same community. Just like me, he was set to attend college later that year. As protests, riots and national debate came in the preceding months, I experienced and observed genuine prejudice and racism first hand for the first time in my life. None of it seemed to matter much as Wilson wouldn’t be indicted. The killing of Brown without consequence made me feel insignificant, angry and afraid.
I carried those emotions with me into my freshman year at the University of Missouri, and, not long into my sophomore year, I participated in and observed protests on campus in response to a string of racist incidents on campus. Without a doubt, I believe the tension on campus resulted from what had happened just a year earlier in Ferguson, which is less than two hours away.
One white student carved a swastika made out of feces on a wall in a dorm bathroom; another approached a group of black students practicing for a homecoming event, shouted racial slurs and made physical threats and a group of white men in a pickup truck called student government president Payton Head, who’s an openly gay black man, racist and homophobic slurs. All these events happened within a few weeks of each other and, quite frankly, we were fed up. After a lack of response from the school, we took action.
The protests, which were led by student group Concerned Student 1950, drew national attention once student Jonathan Butler began a hunger strike, and several members of the Missouri football team threatened not to play until the University of Missouri System President Tim Wolfe stepped down. Eventually, both Wolfe and Missouri chancellor Bowen Loftin would resign. The movement quickly ended after that, but, honestly, it didn’t feel like much had changed. As a young black man in America, I still felt insignificant, angry and afraid, yet again, despite excelling academically, personally and professionally at one of the best journalism programs in the country.
In the years since racism and the senseless killing of black bodies haven’t ceased. If anything, they’ve appeared to get worse under our current political administration. Despite that, I know my life matters and my voice carries weight. Incidents such as the killing of George Floyd never get any easier to process and will never be OK, but rather than get discouraged; I use them as fuel as I continue to contribute to the greater effort toward engineering change.
Tashan Reed, Las Vegas Raiders reporter
Is this your car?
I was just trying to get to school.
It was morning, but I’d argue the sun was plenty high in the sky. The policeman who pulled me over did not feel the same. My lights were off, he explained later. I was doing 52 in a 45. But he had a more pressing question before he asked for my license or registration or cared to explain why I was being stopped.
Is this your car?
Being black in America isn’t just about the tragedy of becoming a hashtag, but that only needs to happen once for it to happen too many times. Black people don’t relish being victims, but after a while, you grow oddly accustomed to the indignities that come with your identity. Like trying to play in a junior high basketball game and not knowing how to react to the fan who keeps uttering “nigger” when you get close enough to hear him on the sideline, and wondering why no one around him seems to care. But also, keeping that incident to yourself because you didn’t feel like starting anything and at 14, it just seemed easier and more right to shrug it off. It’s being biracial and spending much of your life in white spaces, only to have countless people ask why you don’t really “act black.”
It’s a chemistry teacher who notes in front of the entire class that you “don’t have the typical black guy’s nose.” It’s dating someone who’s white and having their father ask why she couldn’t date someone who was her “own kind” and have her mother warn her that black men have more testosterone and, as such, are more likely to cheat in a committed relationship.
There’s no “correct” way to deal with any of this. I don’t have any answers on how to do it. My default reaction is usually to shake my head and tell myself it says plenty about them and nothing about me.
I don’t know how we move forward. Whether we kneel on the sidelines or protest in the streets, the message seems lost for many amid the demonization for the act.
Change is slow. It’s despised in the moment and lionized by history. I’m heartened by progress. I am not enslaved. I do not fear lynching. I can vote. I can own property.
But we can do better. And for those who come after us, we must.
We might not see the fruits. But they will. And that’s a worthy pursuit.
David Ubben, University of Tennessee reporter
Stop-and-frisk harassment
The police can mess with you whenever they want. That’s a fact I grew up with and brought with me to college.
Therefore I wasn’t shocked when the police officers stopped me and asked me, “What’s in your bag?”
I was in college, walking to the BART station in Berkeley to return shoes to the mall. I told them they were shoes I was returning.
“Do you have a receipt?”
“Where’s your ID?”
“Can we look in your bag?”
“Where are you coming from?”
“You know there was a robbery around here?”
Before you know it, I’m up against a plate-glass window, being frisked over a robbery I knew nothing about. My girlfriend, at the time, could only watch. Her boss was eating dinner at the restaurant and looked up to see me getting frisked.
Apparently, I fit the description of the suspect.
After a few minutes, they decided that I was not leaving the scene of a robbery.
That was on a Saturday.
A couple of days later, I was at work on campus. My boss kept all the police alerts, and I saw one for the robbery that weekend.
The suspect was 5-foot-9, less than 200 pounds and wearing an orange Fubu shirt.
I was wearing a UNC shooting shirt that was Carolina blue. I haven’t been short since middle school. There was no mention of a bag with shoes being stolen.
No way I fit the description. I was just the person they decided to stop-and-frisk that day.
Jason Jones, Sacramento Kings reporter
Sirens are a big fear
Sirens scare me. They never did until I got older. It’s the fear of doing something wrong. You begin to panic and start thinking about the most irrational details.
“Do I have a warrant for my arrest?”
“Did I commit a crime I did not know about?”
“Am I about to die?”
I was a few months into being a sports reporter in Fargo, N.D. when I had to cover a high school football game in St. Cloud, Minn. The paper covered prep sports in both states, and I was the Minnesota reporter. We had company cars and I took one to my assignment. I was driving back when I saw sirens in the rearview and heard them. I pulled over and the officer told me my lights were not on. The car was a Subaru station wagon. It was one of those that you had to make one more knob turn for the front and rear lights to come on.
I explained my situation. That I was a reporter using a company car, and it was my first time driving the vehicle at night. I had to show my license and registration, which is normal.
But I also had to show my press pass from the game and fortunately, I already had a business card.
I nearly had to call my editor as a third way to prove I was who I said I was. The officer let me go and that is when I then called a co-worker because I needed to talk to someone about what happened. That person became my future wife, and now she gets worried whenever she hears or sees sirens. Not for her safety. But for mine.
Ryan Clark, Colorado Avalanche reporter
Denied playing hoops down the block
Do you really want to know what it’s like?
To be stereotyped. Sat down by your mother not long after earning your driver’s license, explaining that police love young black boys in nice cars. Told in college by a dorm mate that the girl you had eyes on wasn’t remotely interested because she thought, “How could I bring him home to my family?”
Being an African American male is a daily challenge, one complete with situations that occur so much it’s numbing. We’re constantly being tested mentally in unimaginable facets, almost as if to see what our breaking point is.
And it’s something we are subjected to beginning early in our lives.
We all have our stories. The kind that still makes us shake our heads to this very day. The kind that makes you wonder why people think it’s all right to treat you a certain way. Or unfairly believe you are a threat to them.
Just because of the color of their skin.
I’ll never understand it, just like I’ll never forget the first time I was really subjected to witness-stand like questioning just because of my race. It wasn’t long after I had reached double digits in age, finally old enough to the point where my big brother wouldn’t mind me tagging along — sporadically anyway — on occasion.
Growing up in Uniondale on Long Island, N.Y., there was this small park with basketball courts up the street on Westbury Boulevard owned by the Town of Hempstead. So my brother, a childhood friend of ours who lived a few houses down and I got permission from our parents to venture to play there, a less than five-minute walk from our safe havens.
But on this day, when we got there, we noticed all five basketball goals were being utilized by others, leaving us without a place to have our own fun. It had the feeling of a very long wait, and we weren’t guaranteed anybody would let us play.
Then it hit us.
“What about that park over in Garden City we discovered?”
We can go there, we thought. It looked really cool there.
For context, my neighborhood happened to border three separate municipalities in a half-mile radius — Uniondale, Hempstead and Garden City — and the demographics were pretty obvious. Let’s just say that some of the more affluent people (soap opera actress Susan Lucci comes to mind) lived in Garden City. And still do.
There was a grassy field that was essentially a buffer zone, fenced in but only on the side where most of the public couldn’t access it if they accidentally stumbled upon it. The open area was truly only easily reachable from the Garden City side, another one of those subtle things you don’t realize until you are older and start piecing it together.
So we get to the park, were barely there for a few minutes before a gentleman approached us and commenced with the inquiries.
“Where do you guys live?” he asked. “This park is only for Garden City residents.”
“Uh, down the street,” one of us replied.
“What’s the address?” he said.
My friend gives him a fake address because all we wanted to do was hoop. And of course, you know what happened next. We were asked to leave. The white kids playing there weren’t harassed or even asked about their residency status. But we were.
So we left. But before we even got maybe 100 feet from the park entrance, beginning our journey back home, guess who pulled up? One of the boys in blue. Why? For what?
He reiterated the park was strictly for residents of Garden City. But we knew what that really meant. They didn’t want “our kind” around because they think we are going to cause trouble and eventually bring others there as well, overtaking “their” precious space.
All over some freaking basketball. Two junior-high school-aged kids and another in elementary school.
Give me a break.
Our parents weren’t pleased because they couldn’t find us initially and we got in trouble for not telling them where we were. We explained what happened, and you could see they knew what it was all about deep down inside.
I’ve never forgotten about it. And I won’t, either.
But you know what’s even more frustrating? How instead of my experiences getting better over the last three decades, I can rattle off instances that still make me shake my head to this very day.
Like the time the police rolled up on me as I was leaving a friendly backyard barbecue in Brooklyn about 12 years ago. For some unknown reason, they just so happened to be patrolling the area and arrived as I was walking to the car with my wife.
Holding a red plastic cup and some leftovers, I crossed the residential street. I proceeded to head to get into the passenger’s side door when an officer confronted me after he stepped out of his vehicle blocking our car in.
He asked what’s in the cup. I told him nothing, and I just finished it. He asked for my identification, went back to his car and came back, holding a piece of paper. Mind you, he never sniffed the cup (not that I would have let him because it was none of his business and it’s not against the law to drink out of a plastic cup) and couldn’t prove a thing. But I was already guilty in his mind.
He gave me a citation for drinking alcohol in public.
Needless to say, I was steamed and muttered choice words all the way home. I couldn’t wait until the court date so I could fight it and do what I could to ensure he couldn’t get away with it. I even brought the same cup and from that episode to court and everything.
When the officer presented his case to the judge, I’ll never forget the response from the bench.
“How can you see what he had in the cup?” the judge asked. “What are you, Superman?”
“Case dismissed.”
I never had to utter a word. It was amazing.
I smiled the entire journey from the courtroom in downtown Brooklyn back to my car.
That’s why I can’t take any more of these situations; we’re currently in the aftermath of what happened to George Floyd and Ahmaud Arbery. That could’ve been me. Easily. I’m not a criminal, but do I really get the benefit of the doubt?
And I’m damn sure not a thug.
Quite the opposite. I’m a college graduate, earning a degree from an institution that just so happens to be based in the city where civil unrest was at its greatest. That would be Montgomery, Ala., a southern locale that boasts having one of its high schools proudly named after Robert E. Lee. Yeah, the same guy who was the leader of the Confederate States’ army.
See, we’re constantly reminded of the pain and struggles of inequality and racism, fueled by the age of social media, where it’s easy to hind behind hateful statements. It’s exhausting, nauseating and downright cowardly.
Here’s the thing, though, and I want to make this clear as possible: Despite the daily challenges associated with it, being an African American male is a brotherhood unlike any other and something I don’t take lightly.
I’m damn proud to be an African American male.
You know why? Because we can’t be broken. We find a way to bounce back and show what we are made of.
And we’ll continue to do so. Just watch.
George Floyd, you’ll always be with us.
Rod Boone, Charlotte Hornets reporter
You will never forget
It can be overt. It can be subtle. It is no less painful. You deal with it because you don’t want it to consume you. You don’t want it to affect your mental health. But you never forget. Ever.
Less than a half-mile from our home in a middle-class section of L.A., I was teaching my younger brother how to drive. We were in my car, and it was a stick shift. As most know what it’s like, driving a five-speed isn’t easy to do the first few times. I think my brother was 15 or 16, and I’m four years older. We were driving in an industrial park, which made sense to give him his first driving lessons in a less populated area.
I heard the sirens. We were pulled over, and we moved immediately to the side of the street alongside a curb. A white police officer asked for our licenses. I asked why he pulled us over. We obeyed all signs and weren’t speeding, given that my brother was just learning how to get out of first gear without jerking the vehicle. The officer had no interest in hearing me out. He kept demanding our licenses. I realized he wasn’t going to listen, so I went to comply with his request. They were in the glove compartment, and I reached over. It was at that moment where he drew his gun on us and started yelling at an insanely high volume. We were ordered to exit the car with our hands up in the air and sit on the curb.
I’ve always used the word “sir” simply to show respect for elders. It was what my parents taught me. I used it in this case when asking once more why we were pulled over. I did not get an answer from the officer as he looked into the glove compartment. Our wallets were in there with the licenses. After doing some more cursory searching in the car for who knows what, he left it, inspected our licenses and returned them to us.
We did not receive a ticket because there was no cause for one to be given. Once again, I asked why we were pulled over? He said that the police were on the lookout for “similar looking” individuals. There was no apology. Or if there was, it’s possible I don’t remember it or the details. But I’m pretty sure I would have remembered any real act of contrition. The fact is we were stopped because we were black.
That incident isn’t ever-present in my mind. It isn’t something I constantly cling to as if it’s a crutch to use whenever I feel slighted or wronged. I’m blessed to have a loving and caring family, kind and thoughtful friends and colleagues, and a job that allows me to do some stuff that I’ve never thought I could do. I do realize that I live an existence that not everyone — particularly those who look like me — has. Hell, I’m able to work from home during this pandemic, while millions of others must put themselves more at risk to make their ends meet. And I’ve worked for that. Hard.
But I will never forget that incident within walking distance from my home. I didn’t forget when I was called a “nigger” by a white classmate in the fifth grade. How it hurt me so that I was driven to tears. I don’t forget when I’ve been pulled over and told to exit the car while wearing a Halloween costume as my young family was sitting in it because I hadn’t yet made the time to fix a headlight. I don’t forget when, maybe just a handful of years ago, I was continually shouted down by another officer as I respectfully tried to calmly explain that I lived nearby and was just trying to get my family home when they hadn’t fully closed off the road. I don’t forget when my family has been seated in the back or near a restroom in a restaurant, even though other tables near the window or the front are readily available. I don’t forget when I’m repeatedly asked in a store if I need something when I’m simply looking around at merchandise that I may buy. Or not buy.
I’m glad that I haven’t become numb to the kind of incidents we’ve seen just recently with Ahmaud Arbery and Christian Cooper and George Floyd. These completely avoidable situations that these men were subjected to bring back the anger I felt when I had a gun drawn on me for no justifiable reason by someone who represents the law and is there to “serve and protect.” Whether it’s quiet rage or expressive rage, it is still rage and the difficulty in channeling it and managing it as Marcus Thompson so eloquently wrote.
You may think that I’m blowing that incident and others out of proportion. I’m only providing a few examples that countless other people of color have experienced and as we see play out with cameras on them and infinitely more so without, continue to endure. You may say, forget about it. You’re safe. Healthy. You weren’t physically harmed. You moved on. And I have. They don’t pollute my daily life.
Just don’t ever say to me that they weren’t painful. On occasion, I still feel the pain. I’m feeling it now. And I will never forget. If you are a person of color — and, in particular, black — you know the feeling. If you are white, the chances are strong that you will never know that feeling. Being judged, most often negatively, simply because your skin is darker.
Don’t try to relate. I don’t want you to. Just understand. Just acknowledge that in some ways, our existence will always be different than yours. Don’t be afraid to stand up if you see someone being mistreated. And don’t be afraid to speak up and have a conversation about race in public and, more importantly, in private.
Eric Stephens, Anaheim Ducks reporter
‘It’s déjà vu all over again’
I quote Yankees great Yogi Berra a lot. I’m not even a Yankees fan or anything, but if you ask me why my only answer is that his way of communicating has always appealed to me. “It’s déjà vu all over again” is the one I use the most, I’ve dropped it into random conversations for years now. Something about the way he doubles down on the frustration of repeated events makes a lot of sense to me. It’s the SMH acronym made real.
When incidents of police violence take place in the way they did when Minneapolis police officer Derek Chauvin placed the full weight of his body into the throat of George Floyd last Monday, things often play out in familiar ways. There’s the killing of an American by a police officer; then there’s a rush by some to justify the situation. The part varies, everything from “the suspect reached for my gun” to the more recent iteration “I feared for my life.” Then there’s a process of blaming the victim, often the cruelest part.
Next news of an investigation comes out, a suspension for the cops involved, and then a politician makes a statement telling the public not to rush to judgment until all the facts are presented. Then the public waits for an update, which after a determined amount of time, almost always results in the cop getting off. The same game plan is executed again and again. Over and over and over. Déjà vu indeed.
The cops never learn their lessons, and the system failures repeat.
But something happened on Wednesday that I’ve never seen. University of Minnesota president Joan Gabel announced in a letter to the school that the university would no longer hire officers from the Minneapolis police department to work UM football games. Granted, we’re still amid a pandemic, and nobody is really sure if games at TCF Bank Stadium will even be held when September gets here.
But the point was taken nevertheless. Gabel made clear that although she can’t legislate police officer morality, she can lighten their pockets. Basically, go be a racist on someone else’s dime.
This is what we need everywhere.
UM’s athletic department has a budget of 123 million dollars and a good chunk of that is dedicated to the football team and its game-day expenditures. Local police will no longer be able to count on those coins. Oh, you thought you were going to be able to brutalize people AND buy a new boat? Nah.
For all of the sports leagues and individual teams that sent out messages of solidarity on social media last week, here is your don’t talk about it, be about it moment.
The truth is we can’t appeal to the better angels of bigots, but we can impact them financially. Your department can’t get itself in order; then, they don’t get to work any sporting events. Every pro team and college should immediately adopt this policy. Any wavering on this should make clear what and who they value.
In 2017, Nashville awarded cops more than 9 million dollars in overtime, much of it for working Titans games, as well as for their AAA baseball team, the Nashville Sounds. In a four-year period ending in fiscal 2017-2018, the city of Oakland doled out a yearly average of 30 million overtime dollars for officers to work a variety of city affairs. In this package, over a third of that money was specified for entertainment events, including Warriors’ games.
Dozens of professional and collegiate teams hire out cops from local municipalities and that should continue provided the officers adhere to expected norms of civilized behavior. But as we’ve seen in a myriad of examples over the past several, well, decades, officer behavior can be extremely dangerous. Especially for black people. Regardless of whatever reforms have been instituted, the widespread evolution some thought possible hasn’t happened. The rot in the American police force is deep, and every black person I know is absolutely fed up.
If you studied late 20th Century American history, then names like Eleanor Bumpers and Amadou Diallo should bring you flashbacks. Bumpers, an elderly black woman living in the Bronx and suffering from mental illness, was shot in the chest in her apartment by an officer with a 12-gauge shotgun in 1984 during eviction proceedings. Diallo was killed in 1999 near his home in New York City after cops misidentified him as a rape suspect. They put 19 bullets into his body.
More recently, you have cases like that of John Crawford III, who, while buying a pellet gun at an Ohio Wal-Mart in 2014, was shot by cops after a customer claimed Crawford was pointing a gun at customers in the store. A 911 call was relayed and officers were sent to the store. Video footage revealed that Crawford had not pointed a gun, and the customer later recanted, but of course, it was too late. The officers arrived at the store and plugged him like an animal while he was on the phone, talking to his girlfriend. Ohio is an Open Carry state, by the way.
None of the officers involved in the above cases were convicted of any wrongdoing. As a rule, cops are rarely punished for harming or killing black people. Even if a case gets to a jury, they’re almost always acquitted.
We can discuss the reasons why, but it mostly comes down to the fact that black people (black men especially) are seen by large swaths of the public as threats, and cops tend to get the benefit of the doubt in any interactions. Cops also hold a lot of sway politically, and so policymakers end up playing defense, hoping they avoid the scorn of officers and their unions.
Look at what happened to New York City mayor Bill DeBlasio, who ran on being progressive, but has had his will bent by the police. These days he spends a lot of his time dancing — mostly tap, a little ballet, even an occasional Dougie — for police appeasement. Saturday night, he went one step further, excusing an officer for driving a police SUV into a group of human beings.
The perception of the police as upstanding members of society has always played well in the minds of a gullible American populace. That perception is especially powerful when race is included in the mix. Everyone knows why, yet for most sweeping the issue under the rug is the default. I won’t ignore it, and perhaps reading this will encourage others to stop ignoring it.
Preventing police officers from killing black people is going to take a variety of approaches. Cutting their money is just one of them. It likely won’t change who they are, but it actually might change their behavior. That will hopefully lead to a different outcome then what could have happened. As far as real sweeping reform goes, it’s nowhere near good enough, but it’s a damn good place to start. We’re talking about saving lives here, so no need to hold your nose at any of the options. We need them all.
Khalid Salaam, national NBA editor
(Top photo: Michael Ciaglo / Getty Images)
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