4.5★ #BLM #Juneteenth
“I also think about men like Brock Turner, the Stanford star swimmer, who raped a woman and got six months. Six months because the judge said Turner couldn’t make it in prison, that prison wasn’t for him. But it was made for Richie? For Monte? For my father? My God. Is that not reason enough to shut it down?
. . .
I wonder if any of our kids ever get the proverbial slap on the wrist. The ‘C’mon son. You can do better than this.’ The ‘Let’s go talk to his parents. Maybe he needs therapy.’ Did anyone in law enforcement ever say about one of our kids, ‘Jail would destroy him, so let’s find another way to help.’ Did we ever get a first chance, let alone a second?
If only. No chances at all, to speak of. The author, Patrisse Khan-Cullors is the co-founder of Black Lives Matter. She is passionate, committed, proud and loud. She and #BLM will not be overlooked!
Her memoir of a poor, black childhood in Van Nuys, California, is compelling and uncomfortable reading. She was pretty happy through grade school, but like other kids in her neighbourhood, her family had members in and out of prison, often for offenses for which a middle-class white person would have been acquitted or given a milder sentence.
“For my brothers, and especially for Monte, learning that they did not matter, that they were expendable, began in the streets, began while they were hanging out with friends, began while they were literally breathing while Black. The extraordinary presence of police in our communities, a result of a drug war aimed at us, despite our never using or selling drugs more than unpoliced white children, ensured that we all knew this.”
To complicate matters, Patrisse’s family lives in a predominantly Mexican neighbourhood, so they identify a lot with their friends there. But once you’re picked up and put in prison, here’s what happens. Note that being white just changes which gang adopts you.
“My Black brother who had grown up around Mexicans and sought to identify with them behind the wall, finds that in prison the lines are different. Blacks are only allowed to stay with Blacks. Mexicans with Mexicans. Whites with whites. Even young white boys who go to prison—they are forced to join Aryan gangs no matter what they really believe. It is how you stay alive.”
There does come a point when a lot of young Blacks wonder if it’s worth trying to stay alive. They are targets form the time they are born, and it's not just the boys.
“Black girls are rendered disposable in schools, unwanted, unloved. Twelve percent of us receive at least one suspension during our school careers while our white (girl) counterparts are suspended at a rate of 2 percent. In Wisconsin the rate is actually 21 percent for Black girls but 2 percent for white girls.”
The author delves into her own very personal story of growing up queer-or-maybe-bi-or-maybe . . . She’s never quite sure, but we meet her various partners, both lovers and activists, sometimes the same thing. She also reveals the difficulties of being raised by a mother who worked three jobs, “from can’t see in the morning until can’t see at night.”
Her neighbourhood was right next door to upmarket Sherman Oaks, so she knew who needed to be lobbied. When she decided to hit the streets for real on behalf of Trayvon Martin and all the innocent kids and others who have been killed for no reason at all with no perpetrators jailed, she started in the rich neighbourhoods. I will let her tell it in her own words but will edit out much of the excellent description in the interests of brevity. (I know - I’m never brief.)
“We decide, for that first march, to go to Beverly Hills, to Rodeo Drive, where the wealthiest and mostly white people shop and socialize. All the other marches had been in Black communities, but Black communities know what the crisis is. We want to say before those who do not think about it what it means to live your whole life under surveillance, your life as the bull’s-eye.
. . . in the meetings we have in the Village, . . . we, mostly women, talk about what we deserve. We say we deserve another knowing, the knowing that comes when you assume your life will be long, will be vibrant, will be healthy.
. . .
We deserve, we say, what so many others take for granted: decent food, . . .
And shelter. We deserve that too. Not the shelter that’s lined with asbestos in the walls, or walls that are too thin to keep out the cold. Not the shelter with pipes that pour lead-based water onto our skin, down our throats in Flint, in North Dakota, in New York, in Mississippi. . . .
We deserve to be our own gardeners and deserve to have gardeners. Mentors and teachers who bring the sunlight, the rain, the whispered voices above the seedling that say, Grow, baby, grow.
. . . And we take that message to the people in Beverly Hills, on Rodeo Drive, . . . We say that this is what we mean when we say Black Lives Matter. . . I say that we were not born to bury our children. . . I ask the people who are lunching, perhaps spending more on a single lunch than many of us spend to feed our families for an entire week, to remember the dead and to remember that once they were alive and that their lives mattered. They mattered then and they matter now.
And then I ask the people there on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills to please just stop for a moment, to hold space for Trayvon Martin, to hold space for his parents left in grief and an unspeakable pain. And when I do that it seems like the police are going to pounce; they move in closer and closer and I am scared. But I ask again for a moment of remembrance for Trayvon, and as far as I can tell, every single person within reach of my voice, and all of them white as far as I can see, puts down their champagne glass and their silver fork and stops checking their phone or having their conversation and then every last one of them bows their head.”
We should all bow our heads. And then we should all support Black Lives Matter - because they do.