The Vicious Cycle of Expendable Colored Lives

I can remember walking around the neighborhood, when I was 13 or 14 years old, just before we moved to Germany. I was wearing a fedora, much to present me’s embarrassment, and a deep v-neck t-shirt (accompanied by far more embarrassment), and I had headphones in, listening to no doubt Maroon 5 in my MP3 player. I walked past a house across the street, where three white men, maybe in their 20s but at the time they seemed much older, were cleaning their Jeep. They saw me, and yelled something my way. Of course, I couldn’t quite hear them through the sound of Adam Levine’s screeching voice, and in my naivety, I stopped and smiled, and took my headphones out.

“What?” I yelled back, still smiling assuming they too were in a good mood. They were, but I had yet to come to the understanding that to some, fear at my expense, because of my color, was enough to bring joy.

“Where are you going, nigger?” — one of them yelled back.

“I think he’s more of a wetback,” I could hear another one chuckle.

There is something fascinating I’ve noticed about experiencing racism or discrimination. At this stage in my life now, I am constantly aware of how I stand out — a big Black and Mexican body in a sea of white people, the potential danger I am in, and the likelihood of experiencing malicious and intentional, or indirect, prejudice. I can feel eyes on me, almost constantly. I know it happens, and happens often, because of my own experiences. However, when I was that young boy, I remember hearing those words and feeling this deep and dark empty pit in my stomach, for the first time. It was an emulsion of fear and anger and embarrassment and confusion. That never goes away. To this day, when experiencing sequences of racism, I can recognize that feeling. I think the only difference now is having the ability to hide it away, temporarily, for my own safety, and the awareness that I can take care of myself. But I was young then, and so all I could muster was,

“what?” again.

They were screaming, I didn’t know what to do, and so I began to run. They all jumped into that jeep, and they followed me down that road. Yelling. Laughing. Stalking. A group of hyenas chasing down some small prey for sport. Now I can acknowledge, in adulthood, that my humiliation was probably the extent of what they wanted, but at the time, I thought they were going to kill me. So I ran through some yards and hid in some bushes, until I couldn’t hear their car, and I went home. I remember telling my father at the time, and he took me to drive around and look for them, but I couldn’t remember what house it was, and the jeep was nowhere to be found. I am thankful for the move oversees, for many reasons, but that incident often stands out as a primary one.

When I watch Adam Toledo run through that alley, I recognize that fear. Your legs feel heavy, and unstable. Everything is moving really fast, and boy are you afraid to turn around. He was only 13 years old, when he turned around with his hands in the air, now empty as commanded. He was murdered on the spot.

In the report, as I understand it, the cops listed the incident and proceeding death as following an “armed confrontation”. Had we not seen the video, we’d have operated under the assumption that this boy threatened or attacked the police officer, and he would have died a dangerous and guilty criminal. But that video, as so often is the case with police accounts vs footage, says otherwise. I mourn for the untold number of black and brown bodies that will never get that vindication.

I didn’t want to see that video.

I didn’t want to see that boy murdered, and I wish I could get the image of his body out of my mind. But victims of violent oppression deserve at the very least space in my memory, and to not be forgotten.

Of course, this comes in a matter of time wherein cops have participated in several high profile acts of police violence and murder. The bitter irony of Daunte Wright being shot not far from where Derek Chauvin is being tried, is not lost on our community. The absurdity of an officer pepper spraying a uniformed soldier is also not lost.

“Taser! Taser! Taser!” — three opportunities to realize you are in fact holding a loaded gun and not a taser. I can’t get her voice out of my head, either. Of course, when instances like this happen, much like in instances of mass shootings (which we’ve experienced quite a few of as well), the pundits take up arms and ready their predictable and withdrawn stations. The liberal media seizes on the opportunity to use these events to attack right-wing political figures, while conveniently avoiding the conversations of what ought to be done to stop police from murdering us. The right, much like with guns after mass shootings, rushes to give thoughts and prayers, to everyone involved in these tragic events, while also keeping firm to the notion that these are one-offs, and not indicative of needing any major changes. More training, or even more police are needed, as the lovely Joe Biden has suggested. That will stop them from killing us, supposedly.

Both sides love to cover the protests though, especially when looting or property destruction is involved. Regardless of the words that accompany the footage, it serves as a convenient and exciting opportunity to showcase what is undoubtedly to them the wrong way to protest. They love to show the footage of police beating protesters in riot gear and with tanks and tear gas. It is high-rating television at its finest. We become nothing more to them but content.

I have many thoughts on looting during protests — namely that anyone more vocal about looting than about the murder of unarmed Americans should shut their mouths and reassess their values. In a country that produces and wastes more than is consumed, property damage should be the least of our concerns. But it’s a vicious cycle. Without the fires, without the outrage, without the potential for protests to devolve into chaos, these many instances of injustice would go largely unreported. It’s the threat of chaos that has middle-america, neoliberals and conservatives the least bit interested in our story. So we too, on cue, take up arms and go to the streets, and protest, and get beaten or arrested, or followed home in my case. We do this to make sure the conversation stays on people’s lips, and to assert that no property or institution should be more important than our right to live.

But it’s hard. These names always fade into obscurity for the uninvolved populations in our country, and that is helped along by a plethora of analysis and distractions by our media. Many in the country would rather that we not discuss it — that they not show the videos, that they stop reporting it as anything special, in order to absolve them from any notion that they have a responsibility to put in work. I was talking to a friend I work with, who told me the hardest part of everything going on with the Chauvin trial, is that we’ve spent several weeks debating a murder that we all saw.

To exist in this cyclical state of violence, outrage, deflection, and forget takes its toll. It must be nice, though, living in a way where you don’t have to worry about it. You can speed and not worry that being pulled over could result in your death. You can yell, or argue, or stick up for yourself without being painted as a super-predator, or aggressive, or a danger. Your people aren’t reduced to talking points and their lives and reality not reduced to a matter of political opinion. I sometimes envy you, where I am at my most tired, but I know I could not exist in that space. How foreign the concept is of having an opinion on when you can live with the unjustifiable murder of scores of colored lives. How foreign is the concept of being unconcerned with it not happening again. The idea that someone would rush quicker to stick up for the institution of policing and the sanctity of their mission while stepping over bloodied and brutalized corpses of unarmed colored people is nothing short of vile to me, and it makes me fear interacting with the environment around me. My life seems to be more expendable than a police budget and uniform.

It consumes me, much like it does others that look, and talk, and sound like me. For those, my heart goes out to you. I saw that boy run, and I saw myself, and I saw my brother, and I saw the kids I’ve worked with, and I saw you too. And how I know how hiding in the bushes leaves thistles and thorns in your shirt. How I know how jumping fences leaves bruises and scraps along your thighs. How I know the heaviness of arms held in the air, and the fear to turn around and face those that would have you dead. How I weep for that Daunte’s son and for that boy, Adam, and for all those that will come after him. And how I hate this cycle of talk and opinion around murder. When is it okay to murder us, and when is it not, and how scared they were when they killed us, and all the reasons they should have. It sends a clear message — we are expendable in the name of policing.