Stephon Clark is in his grave.
The sadly predictable blur rises through the electronic ether as pundits and talking heads push for a “thorough investigation” of why two Sacramento police officers shot and killed anunarmed Stephon Clark in his own yard. The Mayor of Sacramento presses publicly to know “all the answers,” while the dismaying results of the autopsy which reveal that Stephon Clark was shot six times in the back, seems unworthy of anything but scant notice. Protest marches engender commentary on motorists who are stopped in traffic and are afraid. Is it permissible to drive through and mow down protestors? Apparently, yes. If you are afraid, you can run down pedestrians with your car. It is a chilling parallel to reports of how the two armed officers were “afraid” of Stephon Clark.
Stephon Clark is in his grave.
Fear is the stock and trade of
those who seek to oppress. We swim in a sea of fear, so much so, that
many fall zombie-like into its thrall.
There is fear of crime, though crime rates are at a fifty year low in
the United States. There is fear of homeless people, where many sit at intersections with hand-scrawled signs
begging for help. It doesn't matter how desperate the situation, the studied gaze that avoids any eye contact wins out in the end. And there is the wonderfully vague “other,” who can
magically take the shape of Muslim, Russian, North Korean, Democrat, Republican, Mexican, any number of
people from “shit-hole countries,” and of course, let us never cease being
afraid of African Americans.
Stephon Clark is in his grave.
In the dark recesses of the tomb,
death and the crippling fear of it, rules like a petty tyrant. It
whips us into shape and causes us to fall in line, nodding in mute ascent as victims
die from hunger in a back alley or fall in a hail of bullets. Starvation and gun-fire are but two of the
methods employed. Poor housing, lack of
education, non-existent health care, denial of access to financial services,
unemployment are all collaborators in the war on African Americans. Yes, death’s methods are myriad, but the ensuing
goal of control, dressed in clownish fear, never wavers. Death
strides the landscape claiming dominion as African Americans continue to succumb. Through it all, we are collectively persuaded by the
bountiful evidence that death is the final sanction. And, the message is clear. If you are not careful it will come for you
as well.
Stephon Clark is in his grave.
The staccato click of reactive retort comes
to the surface. “You know that African
Americans are not the only ones who suffer, don’t you?” Well, yes.
Oppression and it’s accompanying panoply of suffering is a growth
industry, it’s true. Is this a reason
to dismiss centuries of slavery, lynching, rape and torture? Is it justification to turn from sisters and
brothers who suffer from generational trauma?
Does it give permission to walk away from a community who continues to
be hunted and killed by those who are called to “serve and protect?” Does it free us of our moral responsibility to step up and stand in solidarity with
sisters and brothers whose whole lives are governed and stalked by the powers
of fear and death?
Stephon Clark is in his grave.
One would think that the tomb would
be silent, but it’s not. The voices of
our own surrender whisper into the darkness.
These siren sibilant hisses join a choir whose disjointed harmony sings an
anthem that calls us, one by one. No
one who has benefitted from a culture built on the free labor of millions of slaves
goes un-named. No one who has dismissed
the plight of a whole people living among us gets to stay anonymous. This chorus will not be silenced. It will not go away. In these days of manufactured confusion let
us listen to the sounds of death. In
these hours after the preacher has spoken, the coffin is closed, and the media
takes over, let us listen for the sounds of our own name.
Stephon Clark is in his grave.
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