Get Up, Stand Up

Originally written July 18, 2013

People say
It’s gonna be a better day
But the world is the same
In every way

The President says the
World is gonna change, yeah
Mister say is nothing
Mister do is the man.

— Chocolate Milk, “Action Speaks Louder than Words”

Let me just warn you. I’ve been listening to a playlist on Songza called “Damn Right, I Am Somebody.” So I might have a little pep in my step, a little friction in my diction, a little swerve in my words. That being said, this is my Trayvon Martin post. But I hope not to repeat what’s already been said by many far more eloquent than I. Instead I want to tell you some stories.

I was taking a run around the neighborhood when George Zimmerman’s acquittal was handed down. A friend had messaged me his exasperation at the verdict and as I undressed to take a shower I looked at myself in the mirror and got really, really sad. After the shower, I read a few headlines, but decided not to read about it in depth until the next day. I didn’t want to subject myself to knee jerk emotional reactions, which I knew would be a familiar mixture of anger and despair. It’s a mixture that has a tendency to completely incapacitate me or send me into a mind-numbing, alcohol-infused binge. Here are a few stories about why it is familiar to me.

Around the age of 10, at the start of gym class, a boy, we’ll call him Jake, cut in line in front of me. We had to line up outside of the locker room after changing into our gym clothes. I don’t remember exactly why, but there was some sort of reward for getting changed quickly and having a spot in the front of the line. Perhaps we got first dibs on equipment, or a head start during whatever exercises were planned for the day. Or maybe it was just a silly thing we arbitrarily did because we were 10 years old. Anyway, this kid, Jake, just steps in front of me. Not one to back down at that age (at any age, you’ll soon see) I told him to get lost. I think those were the exact words I used. “Get lost, Jake. No cutting.” I would have said, “No butts, no cuts, no coconuts,” but I didn’t think a sing-song rhyme scheme would appropriately convey my seriousness. Jake refused to get out of line, told me to shut up. I said something back, I don’t quite remember what, but it didn’t matter because what came out of Jake’s mouth next changed me forever. He said, “Get out of here. You’re parents were nothing but slaves, so just get out of here.” My parents aren’t African-American, but I wasn’t interested in correcting him. It didn’t matter that he was inaccurate. It was clear what he meant, and it hurt. I wasn’t prepared for that kind of hurt. I was prepared for a 10-year-old battle of insults, maybe some rough housing, but I wasn’t prepared for that. Not knowing what to say, I fired back a completely inadequate “You son of a bitch!” There is nothing I could say back to a racial insult that cuts as deep, that conveys the deep hatred and disregard for my humanity. And I suddenly knew that as soon as Jake called my parents slaves. He took away my parents agency as human beings, and mine who up until that very moment defined myself with pride as my parents’ son. I was no longer sure of it, of myself, of my identity. And yeah, we were just 10 years old, but my world had changed.

A few years ago I was on a date at a local bar. The woman I was meeting showed up with a friend, so I called my friend to come join us. The four of us proceeded to have a few drinks and were generally having a good time. A few older white men approached the women we were with and started to chat them up. The men apparently had been drinking quite a bit or they were simply assholes; either way their banter quickly turned crude and was directed at one of the woman in particular. We’ll call her Alice. Alice fielded their insults disguised as pick up lines deftly, firing right back at them. I watched while she successfully eviscerated these two men. It was a sight to see, and I was enjoying the spectacle, having a chuckle or two at their expense. Apparently I chuckled a little too loud, making their humiliation too public and I immediately became their focus. Their comments turned from sexist to racist as my marked body was not my gender, but the color of my skin. One of the men in particular was quite vehement that I should return to where I came from, that was generally worthless, and not quite human. At least that is what I gleaned from his frothy tirade. I must admit that I was not as skilled at debilitating and humiliating retorts as Alice was and relied on telling this man that he could do a number of violent and physically impossible sex acts to himself. Our verbal assault was quickly broken up by one of the bartenders, a man I knew decently well. The entire spat took no longer than 30–45 seconds, and I was able to forget it reasonably quickly with another drink order and a return to conversation with the company I was with. It was about ten minutes later, the altercation completely forgotten about, that I suddenly felt and heard a loud crack against the side of my skull. It was completely disorientating, but I stood up immediately looking for the perpetrator. I saw his back, he was heading towards the door, the same man who ten minutes earlier had hurled and spit a number of racial epithets at me had just sucker punched me upside the head. I got up with my drink still in my hand. I remember thinking in my head, I am going to smash this glass on his head. I wasn’t able to. My friend held me back, the bouncers grabbed the man and shoved him out the door. The bartender, my date, my friend, and others around me asked me if I was okay. I thought I was. My head was fine; I wasn’t hurt in any physical way. Though I was shaken. I was shaking.

A year before that incident, I approached a bouncer checking I.D.s at the door of another drinking establishment. As I handed him my I.D. he greeted me, “What’s up, Abdullah?” I felt my heart beat faster and I got that shaky feeling. “That’s not my name,” I replied. “Relax,” he replied, “It’s a joke.” It’s always just a joke. I decided not to say anything further, to take the hit and join my friends.

A few months prior to that, during a road trip, I stopped in Gaitlenburg, Tennessee to visit a friend. I was excited to see her, it had been nearly two years since we had last seen each other as co-workers in Breckenridge, Colorado. In that time, she had gotten married, had a baby, and was now unfortunately separated from her husband who had proved not to be the man and husband he had promised to be. We had a great dinner with a few of her friends and she drove me back to her sister’s house to get my car. As we hugged goodbye, a car peeled into the driveway. She warned me it was her estranged husband and that I should go. I told her to go inside and lock the door. I quickly got in my car and waited. I didn’t want to leave in case she needed help. I had my phone out to be able to call the police as quickly as possible. He banged on the front door for a couple minutes, but it remained shut. He then turned to me and walked up to my car window. I don’t exactly know why I didn’t drive away. Perhaps because I thought I had a right to be there, perhaps because I thought running away would be cowardly, or simply because I was perplexed and curious as to this man’s end game. He asked who I was and what I was doing there and I told him I was a friend of his wife and was just saying hi and now leaving. I realized immediately how this must of sounded to him and decided that it would be best to try to leave. As I looked away to put my car in gear and leave, I felt and heard a crack against the side of my face. I felt my lip swell immediately, tasted the saltiness of my own blood. My hands began to shake and I looked to face my assailant, he was heading to his car, his point made. I called 9–1–1, told them what happened and that the perp had left the scene. I gave them the description of the car. They sent two deputies over to take my statement. When they arrived, I was sitting on the porch of my friend’s house. After I related the incident to them, they looked at me carefully, up and down, looked at each other and then asked me if I had been drinking. “What? What does that have to do with anything?” They repeated the question and I told them I had a drink at dinner. They then proceeded to ask me where I was from, why I was there, how long I was staying in town, along with other irrelevant questions. My friend kept trying to tell them she knew exactly who the perp was, had his address, phone number, and license plate. But they had no interest. It all became more clear when I heard the dispatcher over their radios report that they had found the vehicle and it was the former Deputy Sheriff. I suddenly remembered that my friend had told me earlier that night that her husband used to be a law enforcement officer. The two deputies then asked me if I wanted to press charges. I laughed and said “No, I’d rather get as far away from here as possible.” The estranged husband and the two deputies were white.

Two years before that incident, I was in the bathroom of a restaurant/bar in Breckenridge, Colorado. As I finished up at the urinal three unruly white men entered. They shoved each other around, cursed, made fun of each other in the way only the young and drunk can. I ignored them as best as possible while washing my hands. As I dried my hands at the towel dispenser, I suddenly felt a warm wetness on my leg. I looked down and to my left and saw one of these men urinating on me. I stepped away quickly and asked what he was doing. He simply laughed and stated the obvious, “Fucking peeing on you.” I began to shake, my palms felt sweaty. I decided to give him another chance. Asked him why he would do that. He replied, “Because I can do whatever the fuck I want. I’ll piss on you ’cause you ain’t nothing.” That’s when I hit him. His friends quickly jumped me and a couple minutes later, they ran out leaving me with a bloody face and sore ribs. The bouncers came in the bathroom and asked me what happened. I was still shaking, but my anger started to collect in my throat and transform. I was scared and sad. I felt completely alone. I spent all my energy trying not to cry in front of these bouncers and choked out descriptions of the assailants. The bouncers said they would find them and take care of them. I washed my face and went home.

Less than a year ago, I was at a late night restaurant with my then partner and her friend. A drunk man there began to insult my ex and her friend. I stood behind them and let them take care of themselves as they were more than capable. I quietly told myself as I began to feel shaky to stay calm, to not escalate things, to be the better person and lead my partner and her friend away from the drunk idiot. But as I pulled them away, asking them to leave with me, the man turned his insults on me using a few racial slurs. I approached him and told him it would be a good idea to stop. He didn’t, specks of his saliva salting my face. I remember thinking in that instant that I should walk away. I had the power to end the confrontation then and there by walking away. That it takes a stronger person to walk away than to retaliate. But I also remembered how tired I was. How angry I was. I remembered my previous beatings. I remembered how powerless I had felt the other times. I remembered how sad and alone I had felt before. I didn’t want to feel that way anymore. I wanted to stand up for myself, I wanted to fight back, I wanted someone else to feel my pain. I am not a strong person, so I decided not to walk away, and I punched him. We fought for about one minute. We tossed each other against walls, and on top of tables, breaking them. We ended up on the ground exchanging close quartered blows until one of the employees broke us up and the man I was fighting ran off. My ex helped me up and wisely advised that we leave before the police showed up.

Why am I telling you these stories? It’s not for your sympathy and pity. I didn’t experience any difference whether I fought back or not. I’ve told these stories many times to friends, sometimes with humor, sometimes in all seriousness, but nearly every time I get the same reaction from well-meaning friends. “That’s terrible. Some people are real assholes.” And while I appreciate the sentiments, there’s always this misguided idea that these are isolated incidents perpetrated by a few people with bad manners.

Not all of the perpetrators in these incidents used a racial slur. None of the perpetrators in these incidents are card-carrying members of white supremacy groups. And yet in the days after each incident a deep sense of despair and sadness infected me. And it wasn’t because of the individuals who had insulted me or assaulted me. It was because I knew it wasn’t going to be the last time it happened. It was only going to be a short amount of time before it happened again. And each time it happened, it happened in a different city, in a different state. It seemed everyplace I went I would not be safe to simply exist. I now know this to be true.

What makes me most sad about all of the above incidents is how the perpetrators felt perfectly valid and comfortable confronting me, assaulting me, acting with such unprovoked aggression. It is easy to say it is fault of a few bad apples. But what causes an apple to rot? It is not born rotten. It rots simply because we allow it to. It is the very air around it that rots it. We do not throw it way or protect it at first signs of rot. We let it be. Racist individuals exist because our society is racist and allows racism to perpetuate.

Now consider Trayvon Martin, consider every person of color you’ve ever known. Consider their day-to-day lives. Consider how the incidents I described above are not unique to me. Consider that not every time does the perpetrator use a racial slur. Consider that a lot of times they do. Consider that in the context of American history and race. Consider the suspicions, the prejudices, the tiny knee-jerk reactionary thoughts a lot of individuals have in the presence of people of color, even if those thoughts never escape your mouth but are instead betrayed by their eyes or the way they hold themselves. Now, consider what this might do to a person of color. Consider what this might make that person think when they wake up in the morning and see themselves in the mirror. Consider the decisions that person must constantly make to protect their psyche. Consider how some might develop bravado, some might develop anger, some might develop fear, some might develop denial, some might develop weakness, and some might develop apathy. Try to feel what Trayvon felt as a stranger who appeared white asked him what he was doing there. Try to feel what Trayvon felt when this stranger then got out of his car and followed him. Try to feel what Trayvon felt when this stranger stood directly in front of him, his hot breath curling up Trayvon’s nostrils as he was questioned as to whether he belonged there. Try to feel all of Trayvon’s memories of past incidents, beatings he may have taken at a younger age, names he may have been called for his entire life, the beatings of men on television who shared his skin color, the shootings of men who looked like him. Try to feel his emotions as he connected this with the truth of history in America. Try to imagine the of “Strange Fruit” in the trees of Florida, Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia; of the news of the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and Malcolm X; of the syphilis-infected men of Tuskegee; of twitter feeds spewing outrage at a little black girl playing Rue in The Hunger Games; of social media posts spewing nigger this and nigger that when a black hockey player won a game for his team; of failure of relief to Hurricane Katrina victims. Imagine all of these things being a part of Trayvon Martin’s life and a part of how he understands the world and who he is in America. Now, again, consider how Trayvon felt as a stranger approached him in his own neighborhood and stood a little too close.

Consider that I have done the same thing. Consider that I am still alive.

It does not matter what George Zimmerman thought that night. It only matters what Trayvon thought that night. And it only matters that over the last four hundred years our society has forced him to feel only one way: scared, angry, and tired. And now consider he, a child, is gone.