Too Many Damn Names

When I finally went to bed last night, I lay there in the safety of my skyrise apartment and my white privilege for several hours wishing for the sleep that would be slow to come. Outside my windows, I heard the sirens of public safety vehicles and the whir of a helicopter circling overhead. Earlier in the evening, I stood on my 10th floor balcony and watched people march down Houston Street protesting the death of yet another unarmed black person as a result of police brutality. I heard the shouts. I heard people banging on the doors of the American Airlines Center across the street, and I saw the lights flashing inside the building when the security system was activated. When I went outside today, I saw that the building was boarded, which probably accounts for the banging we heard. But the noise and scene last night outside my apartment was eerily similar to the national news coverage of events happening in New York City, Los Angeles, and Washington, D.C.

I detest the intentional destruction of property. I abhor violence of any kind. I do not believe in “an eye for an eye,” and I make no apologies for that belief – whether it is people retaliating against police violence or the sanctimonious white Christians who have used that excuse for generations to perpetuate violence against someone with a different skin color. I am saddened by the riots, but I am sickened by the ongoing racism in our country, the laws and policies that continue to promulgate it, and the defensive fragility of white people who aren’t willing to have a conversation about it, therefore allowing it to fester and spread.

The senseless death of George Floyd at the hands (or knee) of a Minneapolis police officer this past week is not an isolated incident. I’m ashamed to admit that I have forgotten the names of many of those who have been killed, mostly because there are so many damn names. They are names to me, but to their families, they were sons, daughters, fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, and so much more.

Let me be clear – I respect law enforcement. I have worked with some of the best law enforcement personnel, both male and female, from various races and ethnicities. But as with other disciplines, including my own, there are individuals within those professions who do harm to others. No profession is immune – none, so it’s way past time to stop being defensive and start having honest discussions. Denying the problem does not resolve it.

I’ve always been the person who believed that if we were united, we could overcome all injustice and solve all problems. But the truth is that I may have had my head and heart so far in the clouds that I failed to see the corrosive evil in front of me. However, the past four years have brought it glaringly into focus.

I have always wanted to be part of the solution, but now I wonder if I’m too angry and weary to have the necessary conversations. I can’t muster an ounce of empathy or understanding when I hear people of my own race somehow justify the killing of unarmed, innocent black people because they assume wearing hoodies or “sagging pants” makes them “guilty.” My patience level has reached its peak for white people complaining about “black lives matter” because “all lives matter.” Whether it is a willful lack of understanding or ignorance, their inability to understand how they have completely missed the point is maddingly frustrating. I have lost any capacity I may have had to engage when I hear white people express outrage because Colin Kaepernick quietly kneeled during the national anthem. I am so disgusted by that “white nationalism” mentality, that I’m not sure I can stand during the national anthem anymore. I am so repulsed by seeing the confederate flag or homages to confederate soldiers that it wrecks my mood for days.

Trust me, I own my failings in this, too. I think I’ve spent too much time in my liberal bubble trying to be the “cool white person” to my black friends that I haven’t done enough meaningful work. I’ve spent too much time quietly seething at the racist comments uttered by white “prayer warriors” and not enough time trying to have an honest conversation with them around race. And now, I’m so sad, angry and weary, I am losing the willpower to try.

If I am feeling this way, I can only imagine how my black friends must feel. My frustration is probably only an iota of what they have endured for generations. I don’t condone violence of any kind – including war, but I understand the exasperation at the minutia of rectifying social injustice.

I fear the riots will further widen the divide in this country because whites will refuse to get out from behind the comfort of their privilege and continue to make excuses for their actions and blacks have just lost patience.

For now, I will continue to share uplifting stories of hope like ones I heard during a Facebook Live stream on May 28 hosted by 100 Black Men of Chicago. Two of the panelists had ties to Dallas – former Police Chief David Brown, who is now the Superintendent, Chicago Police Department, and my friend, Dr. Brian Williams, who is Associate Professor of Surgery at the University of Chicago, Division of Trauma and Acute Care Surgery. I learned about their efforts to address gun violence, which continues to be a major public health problem. I also learned about projects such as “Masks Up, Guns Down,” which involve youth in encouraging others to protect against COVID-19 by wearing masks.

And as the pastor said during the sermon at online church today, I will pray for God to “breathe strength into my weariness” and to make something good out of the “shitty racism” in our country. Please God – those are my thoughts and prayers.