My old man
enjoyed telling stories. Some educational… some fictional... some heartfelt…some
exaggeration. Some too damn everything to actually be true. Most of these stories, though, are now etched
in my consciousness to the point that I can start, pause, exaggerate, and
finish them as well as he used to. Maybe he was just a master storyteller.
Maybe I just heard each of them too many times. Either way, they became such a
part of our love/hate relationship that it feels like they’re my stories now
too.
Some of
these stories are a bit more memorable than the others, though, and one of
these involve the first time he became aware of Emmett Till. He was thirty-five
years old when the famous Jet Magazine featuring Emmett Till’s gruesomely disfigured
face hit the newsstands. It was at that moment that the civil rights struggle
became real to him. That’s what he told me. Sure, he was aware of how volatile
things were becoming in the South. And, although Gary, Indiana wasn’t Money,
Mississippi, he’d already experienced racism. No fire hoses and lynching’s, but
racism still.
But, for a
Black man, seeing stuff on an old black and white TV, or hearing your friends
talk about it doesn’t compare to the visceral impact of seeing an image like
that in person. In his mind, if something like this could happen to a Black kid,
it could happen to him too. My old man wasn’t the only one who had that
reaction when seeing Emmett Till’s picture.
For many folks—white
and Black, who weren’t on the front lines, the fight for equal rights was real,
but still somewhat mental battle. The circulation of that picture served as one
of the many “Wake up!” flashes that occurred in that decade, an instant that
shocked Black people into action.
I thought of this Tuesday while reading a few
of the articles published this week marking the one year anniversary of Trayvon
Martin’s murder. I’m sure we all remember how his death electrified the Black nation.
I seriously can’t remember another time in my 58 years where so many folks were
so visibly united against injustice. We marched and cried. We organized and
demanded. We rocked hoodies. And, despite what some people seem to think now;
this action did manage to achieve the immediate goal. A year ago, George
Zimmerman was a free man. Right now, he’s awaiting trial for murder, and I don’t
think for one minute this would have happened without the motherfucking ruckus
we caused.
But, while
Martin’s death had distinctive circumstances, it was a part of a much bigger picture…..gun
violence in our communities…that still remains epidemic. Yea, violent crime has
been on a decade-long decline pretty much everywhere…even Chicago, but saying
600 murders a year is better than 900 is like saying AIDS is better than
Ebola!!
We’ve collectively tried everything from severe
gun control laws to support groups involving ex-gang-bangers to reduce this
tide, and nothing seems to really help. Well, we’ve tried almost everything. I still read 4 newspapers a day at least four
or five times a week. (Yeah, it’s easier to read the paper online, but there’s
something about reading, holding, and folding that still draws me to it) Often,
I read about the murders in our community. Sometimes, people I personally know
will be involved in the murder in some way. More times than not, though, I have
no connection to the murder victim. They’re nothing more than a name, age, and
location. And, while the news will sadden me, I usually forget all about it by
the time I get to the sports. I doubt I’m the only one who goes through a
similar process.
But, what if the paper and every other
magazine, show, program, periodical, and website reporting on the news started
running pictures of the dead along with the stories? Not the prom and Facebook
profile pictures that’ll sometimes be used when the story airs on the news, but
the pics of how they look right now. Dead!! The crime scene photos!! CSI type
pictures! The bloodied, bullet-riddled bodies!! The shotgun-shelled corpses
left with half of a head. The seven year olds with holes where their hearts
used to be!! The faces with lifeless eyes still open, forever staring until a
family member or sympathetic detective closes them. The rotten, unrecognizable
blobs lying in woods or underneath houses, found only because it’s getting warm
outside and they’re starting to stink. I doubt they’d be as forgettable. I
doubt we’d be able to turn the page as easily, to let them escape our minds as
we read box scores or play a damn Facebook game. I doubt we’d be as willing to
say and continue doing nothing. It worked for my old man. I wonder if it would
work for us too.
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