August 2019 is the five-year commemoration of the murder of Michael Brown Jr., an eighteen-year-old Black boy killed by a White Ferguson, MO police officer. Ferguson is less than two miles from Saint Louis. At the time, I worked for Veterans For Peace and lived in Saint Louis.
August 9, 2014, was a hot summer day in Eastern MO, known for sweltering heat and humidity. Around noon, a police car driven by officer Darren Willson approached Michael and one of his friends as they walked through Canfield, a predominately Black neighborhood in Ferguson. A confrontation ensued, and quickly, Michael lay dead. His body stayed in the street for more than four hours. The killing and the disrespect of leaving his body in the hot sun enraged the neighborhood. Fueled by decades of police abuse, neglect and racial discrimination, a rebellion erupted. The frontline resisters were young people unwilling to accept the status quo.
I did not hear about the killing until the next morning, and I did not know there was growing resistance until later that night. As protest grew, I played a role behind the scenes supporting the energy and direction of hundreds of young activists. The circumstances sadden me, but I am honored to have followed their lead and helped call for justice for Michael Brown Jr., police accountability, and broad change. We have not accomplished all we set out to do. But there has been some positive change, and we helped jump-start a movement for Black Lives that began in the aftermath of Trayvon Martin’s murder.
At fifty, the killing of Michael Brown, Jr. was not my wake up call for how little my life as a Black man means in my nation. As a child, I was warned to be careful with the police. My first memory of police is my grandmother, eyeing a police car in the neighborhood, proclaiming, “There goes The Bull.” That’s not exactly what one might call Officer Friendly.
History gave me a hint. As a child, I learned about Emmett Till, a fourteen-year-old boy, killed in 1955 by White supremacist for allegedly whistling at a White woman. I learned about the September 15, 1963, 16th Street Baptist Church bombing in Birmingham AL, that killed Addie Mae Collins (14), Cynthia Wesley (14), Carole Robertson (14), and Carol Denise McNair (11). And of course, I knew of other high profile deaths during the Civil Rights movement such as King, Evers, Hampton, and X.
From a young age, late into adulthood, I had a running fear of a confrontation with the Klan. Growing up in the South surrounded by “Rebel Flags” I stayed on guard for the haters in white pointed hats.
March 3, 1991, Rodney King’s brutal beating by LAPD cops brought police brutality to me in a new light. It happened while I was sitting in the sands of Iraq, “protecting our freedom.” The event gave me a lot to think about, but it did not fully jolt me into clearly seeing that the color of my skin meant my death could be an incident away.
I moved to Saint Louis for the first time in September 1995. I’ve lived there three times now. A few months later, I attended the Million Man March in DC. I did so because I was well aware of the challenges my community faced, and I thought the momentous gathering would spur more activism. I wanted to be part of the new surge. I do not think of our presence in DC as a protest, nor did we march. It was more of a rally to motivate Black men to take responsibility for making our communities better. It was my first public engagement for positive change. I immediately returned to Saint Louis and joined the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, NAACP. My first actual protest was a small community march against police violence. If I remember right, the police shot an unarmed Black man trying to escape arrest. Though I advocated for police accountability, I did not fully grasp the role of racism and how it related to my safety. I think I believed it could not happen to me.
It took a brutal killing in New York City to do that. February 4, 1999, police shot at Amadou Diallo, a twenty-three-year-old immigrant from Guinea 41 times, striking him 11. The killing upset me, but I was devastated by the outcome of the acquittal of the police officers of all responsibility for Amadou’s death. That woke me up. He did nothing wrong. He was walking home. Yet, somehow, he was responsible for his death. In my country, walking while Black can get you killed. I finally understood I was Amadou Diallo.
Since then, I have been on a continuous journey resisting, not only police repression and brutality but xenophobia, patriarchy, and war. I work for peace, which, to me, means human harmony with the planet and justice. I sincerely believe, No Justice No Peace is a true statement. I must work for both to achieve either.
Today and forever, I remember Michael Brown, Jr. As I did five years ago, I give my best to his family and friends. I am sure my words give them little comfort, but he did not die in vain. He has motivated millions to be anti-racist activists and work for the change we need to have a peaceful and just world.
I pray that you find peace as best you can. Thank you for your strength.
James Bird – Murdered by White supremacist, July 7, 1998, Jasper, TX
Amidu Diallo – Murdered by police, February 4, 1999, New York NY
Patrick Dorismond – Murdered by police, March 16, 2000, New York, NY
Oscar Grant – Murdered by police, January 1, 2009, Oakland, CA
Trayvon Martin – Murdered by a vigilante, February 26, 2012
Eric Garner – Murdered by police, July 17, 2014
Michael Brown Jr. – Murdered by police, August 9, 2014
