Convergence

A population driven mad by months of relentless anxiety. Isolation. Job loss. Rumor. Fear. Divisiveness.

A cop.

And a black man passing counterfeit bills.

It shouldn't have gone this far. But it did.

I am aware that black people do not trust law enforcement to the degree that white people do. And yet, I find myself still needing to ask this question: why do so many black men and women resist police? Why do so many fight law enforcement every step of the way in each and every encounter?

Has no one ever told you that when you come across an agitated dog the worst thing you can do is run? That this is only excites the dog's chase instinct and increases the likelihood that you will know what it's like to have a portion of your anatomy inside a dog's mouth?

I often wonder if there's a cause-and-effect problem at work here. Do black people resist because they fear the worst in any encounter with police? Or do cops get tough with blacks because they resist so frequently?

I have had encounters with police, too. And let me make this clear: I don't harbor unconditional love for law enforcement. They are a necessary evil. But if you're smart, you chill. You put a lid on it. You clench. 

Believe it or not, you're in control. You can either agitate the police or you can de-escalate the situation.

For all police know, you're Crazy Luther. And you've murdered seventeen people and cooked 'em over a spit by the railroad tracks.

Show them your ID. Tell them what you're doing in this part of town. Again, chill. The cops are only doing their job. You want to sleep in your own bed tonight, right?

Of course, if you are Crazy Luther, you won't see this as the best way forward. And your actions will scream “Guilty!” to the police. They will react in kind.

The snippets of video I've seen indicate that prior to being put on the pavement, George Floyd was combative. He provoked law enforcement's chase reflex to find, subdue and arrest the bad guy.

Before you nominate me for an honorary membership in the Klu Klux Klan, let me continue.

Derek Chauvin was a cop. And like the rest of us, he was probably feeling pretty pent-up himself.

We Americans react very poorly when we are told we can't do something. It is (or was) Derek Chauvin's job to keep us on the straight and narrow.

As a cop, he is lied to regularly. Every person he detains is innocent. Every person he restrains can't breathe.

George Floyd was just another belligerent black guy trying to manipulate him and the circumstances of his detention. What reason did Chauvin have to believe that Floyd truly couldn't breathe after hearing “Wolf!” so very many times before?

Chauvin's fatal error was in not realizing that Floyd couldn't breathe. That Floyd's pleas were genuine. The hardened cop kept his knee on Floyd's neck for upwards of eight minutes. Deprived of oxygen, Floyd died.

We have here the intersection of massive stereotyping. Prejudice. Floyd's assumption that as a black man he would only receive the worst from police and not be given the slightest opportunity to prove otherwise.

And Chauvin's assumption that Floyd was lying. And that since he continued to resist, he required severe tactics meant to lock-down his detention.

It is a book of sorrow.

Stir in an agitated population rife with cabin fever and anxiety and looking for something, anything to take the edge off and along comes a made-to-order disaster.

Yes, the death of George Floyd was cause for a civil rights demonstration.

And it worked. All involved have been fired from the Minneapolis Police Department. The lead culprit has been arrested and is facing second-degree murder charges. Let's hope the ensuing trial doesn't turn into the farce a similar trial did here in Chicago.

Okay. So the object of your derision is in jail. You got what you wanted. Go home.

But you couldn't. And didn't.

Too often, a demonstration is an excuse to burn stuff and break windows. And if the broken window happens to be at a department store, that entitles you to a free pasta maker. Or sheets. Or a case of giardiniera.

Whatever you can get your hands on.

I used to work in downtown Chicago. And I happened to be returning to work after lunch when the news broke that Harold Washington (Chicago's first black mayor) had died.

Let me add he wasn't hung from a tree by guys in white robes. The cause of death was a heart attack.

Nevertheless, a small-scale riot broke out. Windows were smashed. Cars were stopped. Windows and sheet metal were banged on. A liquor store's windows were shattered. Bottles were snatched.

I watched in disbelief.

This wasn't an expression of grief. It was an excuse to act like a shit and get free stuff.

So I find myself in the awkward position of kinda sorta agreeing with (gulp) Donald Trump's tweet. Demonstrating doesn't mean complimentary consumer goods. Ever. I feel no empathy for those exploiting this event to burn and loot.

But whatever our view of Trump, we are a nation riled-up by him. He thrives on that. Distraction. Sleights of hand. Provocation. Feints. Loud voices. Anger. Chaos.

It is what he does best.

Ensconced in the hot house bubble of a pandemic, we are even more susceptible to him. And while we're screaming at each other, Trump wants to forbid the government from issuing economic reports until after the election. He is issuing executive orders prohibiting social media from fact-checking him.

“We're here today to defend free speech from one of the gravest dangers it has faced in American history” he said last week without a trace of irony. Even as he demands his lies go unchecked and his failures as a president stay hidden and unreported.

Toxicity has never been so transparent.

If you're white, you need to acknowledge something: if America weren't a sexist and racist nation, Donald Trump would not be president. He....this....is the price of our hatred. Our prejudice.

We are a nation in desperate need of healing. Two groups of extremists who need to back away from the edges.

But how do we do this? Where do we begin?

Maturing would be a good start. You know, acting like grown-ups. Adulting. Realizing that the definition of 'tyranny' so many of us are throwing around is the equivalent of a tween calling his parents 'fascists' after their smartphone privileges have been revoked for a weekend.

Oh that we should ever know real, honest-to-God tyranny.

It's easy to hate people you don't know. It's even easier to reduce them to one-dimensional caricatures. Like I do with conservatives and folks who belong to the NRA.

Which is why I advocate for leaving our hyper-demographic social media bubbles. Engaging with whomever we define as the enemy. Get to know them. And find another way forward.

Because this isn't working. In fact, it will likely destroy us.

Retail Racism?

Back in the early-nineties, while attempting to nudge a part-time gig in my chosen field (book publishing) into a full-time one, I worked a second part-time job in retail. Fortunately, it didn't demand that I sell Dockers at Sears or patio furniture at Montgomery Wards. 

I worked in a record store.

It was ideal in a way, having a foot in both the book and music worlds. But working six days a week and literally morning, noon and night for two or three days per without health insurance or paid time off was wearying.

But not so wearying that I didn't notice thieves in my record store.

“Teresa? Watch that woman in the jean jacket and long skirt, will you?” I ducked beneath the counter. Despite being an amazingly attractive man, I knew the men and women eying me weren't seeking a hook-up.

Nope. They wanted to know when it would be safe to stuff a CD down their pants. Or under a jacket. Or in a bag suspended between their legs beneath an oversized skirt. At the time, only cosmetics were pilfered more often than CDs in the United States.

“Oh my god!” gasped Teresa. Bingo.

I accosted the woman outside. I took her by the arm and urged her towards the store. Just then an Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight squealed to a stop in front of the store. “LaWanda! Get in!”

Raised in an environment where I was taught it was wrong to manhandle women, I wasn't as forceful as I should have been with LaWanda. She broke free and made it to the car.

I memorized the license plate and called the police.

This scenario played itself out many times. Most-disturbing to me was that the thieves were almost always African-American. And by almost always I mean over ninety-percent of the time.

An idealistic but naive co-worker chastised me for watching African-Americans more-closely than Caucasians. He called me a racist.

I shrugged my shoulders. 

Was I acting on accumulated experience? Or was I profiling? Maybe it's just that African-Americans were really crappy thieves?

I ask because in the wake of the recent brouhaha over a denied restroom visit at a Starbuck's in Philadelphia and the attendant accusations of retail racism, I have to question the M.O. of the offenders.

There exists a persistent and unfortunate ethos in the ghetto that demands that its inhabitants constantly prove their “blackness”. This usually involves acting in such a way that is one-hundred and eighty-degrees removed from the societal norms of white America.

Once upon a time, I had a big, giant chip on my shoulders about employers. After being unjustly removed from a job I loved because I didn't bestow a sufficient number of pliant kisses on a director's ample bottom, I grew my hair and dressed in jeans and inflammatory political t-shirts as I waited for responses to my resume.

I was hurt. I was angry. I was frustrated. I wanted my appearance to scream “I am not a cubicle drone! I am not an office automaton!”

In the words of our greatest president, mission accomplished.

On visits to retail establishments (especially upmarket ones in fancy neighborhoods), I was treated accordingly, no matter how innocent my intent. Since I didn't conform to the norm I was regarded as a threat.

Like all sentient organisms, human beings learn from experience. If a yellow snake with red stripes inflicts us with a painful and life-threatening bite, we will act very, very carefully the next time we encounter one, our motivation being to stay alive.

To that end, one of the men involved in the Philadelphia Starbuck's incident speaks of dressing in hoodies and Timberland boots, the better to prove he is an “authentic” African-American and not some media-manipulated Oreo.

To which I say great. Have at it. Dress like a thug—get treated like a thug.

It's just that simple.

But before you label me as a racist or accuse me of endorsing mindless conformity, read on.

In 2018 America there is a deep and collective sense of angst. We are a society undone by terrorism and random gun violence and the willful chaos of the Trump White House and the seething bipartisanship that underlays every facet of our lives. 

Then there is the looming spectre of climate change and a vague unease about the future and who it will include—and exclude.

None of us know what really happened at the Starbuck's in Philadelphia. We don't know what the manager's frame of reference was. We don't know how she felt. We don't know how the denied men looked at or spoke to her.

There is no complete audio or visual record of the incident.

But I doubt that manager called the police solely because the men were black. She called the police because she felt threatened. And being responsible for the safety of virtually every person in that store, acted in kind.

She is no more a racist than I was, or am.

In addition to being anxious, we are angry. And often seem to view everyone who isn't a clone as a potential enemy. Nurtured by reality TV and the anonymity of the Internet, we confront. As our TV listings confirm, every interaction is a potential 'War'.

So there are African-Americans who refuse to kowtow to any perceived influence or dictate of white America, it being in their minds a symbolic act of surrender. Of giving in. And their defiance has reached epic proportions.

Not that they don't have an abundance of reasons for doing so. Only someone without a soul would deny that African-Americans have been treated with something less than fairness by the citizenry and government of the United States of America.

But in 2018 America we throw accusations around like confetti. We rarely stop and ask is this truly legitimate? Is this going to dilute the pool of genuine grievances?

The shooting of Laquan McDonald by the Chicago Police Department is absolutely worthy of strident and nationwide protest.

Not being able to loiter at a Starbuck's because you're dressed like a thug? Not so much.

When every perceived slight is met with the same towering rage, I hear the rivets on the Titanic popping. I hear the cables on a suspension bridge snapping. I hear the carefully-constructed infrastructure of our civilization giving way.

In our blind, freely-distributed and frequently disproportionate anger I hear the Tower of Babel being built.