May 8, 2020 would have been Ahmaud’s twenty-sixth birthday.
I am a runner, so the call to run 2.23 miles (because he died on February 23,
2020), on his birthday, in his memory, appealed to me. I have four Ahmauds –
children born with beautiful mahogany skin and kinky-curly hair; children that
you only have to look at to know they are descendants of Africans brought to
this country to build it for free; to be raped, tortured, lynched, and maimed. To be owned.
Four hundred and one years after the first Africans were brought to this
country, African-Americans are still being put to death for being brown. An
entire country that brutalized and destroyed generations of people - Native Americans and then Africans - has now disguised itself as the victim (google the name Amy Cooper for one recent example), and created the image of African-Americans as predatory
and criminal. My children are Ahmaud.
So I set out to run 6.69 miles alone, knowing that
later I would run the final 2.23 with my four children. 2.23 times 4. In honor
of Ahmaud, someone else’s baby, and in recognition that I have four just like
him. Only I could not stop at 6.69, so I ran an even 7. It was one of my
strongest runs in quite some time. But, it was one of my most mentally painful.
I ran and I prayed. I ran and I sang along to my praise music. I ran and I
fumed. I ran and I cried. Tears spilling onto Georgia asphalt as I wondered how
much blood and sweat and tears of slaves and freedman was spilled on my route,
and long forgotten. I grappled with the issues that brought on Ahmaud’s demise,
and I wrestled with the sovereignty of God.
I only just learned Ahmaud’s name the day before. And,
the more I learned, the angrier I got. I talked to both of my boys. They have
been working hard to stay fit during the time of social distancing. They have
been going out a lot, running for speed. Ahmaud was out running too. Minding
his own business. Trying to stay fit. In his own neighborhood. It was not the
first time I talked to my boys. I have been talking to them since they were
little, about how to respond to police or angry strangers, if confronted.
I tell them to stay calm when confronted by police or
regular citizens. Black men who raise their voices are perceived as
threatening. I tell them to put their hands up in a surrender stance, even if
they have nothing to surrender. “Your job is to come back home alive,” I tell
them. I tell them to never, ever run. Black men who run away are seen as
threatening, and often shot in the back. I tell them that if they ever find
themselves with a group of friends and someone comes up with a stupid idea,
they are not to follow the crowd. They are to come home, immediately! We live
in a predominately white neighborhood. Most of their friends are white. I tell
them that if they are out participating in some dimwitted prank, as teenagers
have been known to do, and someone with a gun wants to teach them a lesson
about mischief, in the sea of vanilla running away, the gunman will aim for the
chocolate. I know this. I want them to know it. They need to know it. To
survive. I tell them very simply, “You are not permitted to make the same
idiotic choices that your white counterparts can. So, just come home.”
In my dismay, I confided in a very close friend about
how sad I am about Ahmaud. This friend whom I love, who I know loves me,
proceeded to tell me about another tragic case; a security guard that was shot
in the head for insisting that a customer wear a face mask. As she told me the
story, my mind immediately went to cynicism. Immediately. I wondered to myself,
Is she telling me this story because it’s a tables turned kind of thing? Is
she telling me this because a white security guard was killed by Blacks? Or,
maybe it’s an all Black situation; another case of ‘them killing themselves.’
Why is she telling me this story? Is it to mitigate Ahmaud’s death in some way?
Understand, this is a beloved friend that I know,
without a doubt, would put herself in between any one of my children and any harm
that threatened them. She is also a minority, but you might not be able to tell
that at a glance. And, her children have blond hair and blue eyes. I will likely never have to protect them from
danger.
I did look up the story she was talking about. The
victim and the perpetrators are all Black. The perpetrators were arrested
immediately and charged immediately. Ahmaud was killed on February 23, 2020,
and until May 8, 2020, the two white men that murdered him were still living
freely in their homes, with their families.
Dylan Roof, the white supremacist and mass murderer who
perpetrated the Charleston church shooting in June, 2015 was arrested
peacefully by law enforcement, and escorted to and from court appearances
wearing a bullet proof vest for his protection. Dylan Roof is just one example
of the differences in the way white suspects are treated and apprehended.
According to the website mappingpoliceviolence.org, unarmed Black people were
killed by police at five times the rate of whites in 2015. So, my children are five
times more likely to be seen as threatening and shot by police than my friend’s
children.
Except, Ahmaud Arbery was not killed by the police. He
was killed by vigilante white men who thought he resembled a robbery suspect.
Vigilante whites have been rounding up and killing my people for suspected
crimes, for fabricated crimes, and for the purposes of intimidation for 401
years. According to the New Georgia Encyclopedia, Georgia’s documented lynch
toll is 458, exceeded only by Mississippi. This number is likely inaccurate, as
there was no docket to officially record lynchings, and lynchings were often
public events that racist white families attended in a celebratory fashion;
bringing blankets to sit on while they ate their lunches and spectated,
heckling the victims.
But, the evidence is there – white perpetrators of
crimes are apprehended and tried for their crimes; and even protected from
physical harm during the process. White lives have value and deserve fair
proceedings. Even mass murdering whites are not as threatening as Black
suspects. Black suspects are fair game for anyone with a weapon. They can be
run down, gunned down, dragged through the streets, and beaten for looking like
someone who may have committed a crime. Because, Black people are inherently
threatening.
I ended my talk with my boys with these four words,
“So, just be careful.” But, as I turned to walk away, my youngest son, who is
only thirteen and quick to question, quick to challenge, and quick to speak up,
stopped me in my tracks. This child is not one to put his hands up in surrender
when faced with injustice. God, please protect him!
“What do you mean, ‘be careful’? How will being
careful help us? Ahmaud didn’t do anything reckless or careless. He was just
out running.”
All I could say was, “You’re right. We have to just pray for protection.” I cannot promise my son that he will not be murdered while minding his own business, simply because his skin is brown.
All I could say was, “You’re right. We have to just pray for protection.” I cannot promise my son that he will not be murdered while minding his own business, simply because his skin is brown.
I do pray, obviously. And, I did. I prayed every time I
thought of Ahmaud, for God to watch over and protect my children and all brown children as they go about their daily lives. I prayed and prayed and prayed and
then God whispered. He brought Abraham and Isaac to mind. Abraham would have sacrificed
his son - the one he had prayed for, the one God promised him, the one he
received miraculously – at God’s command.
“But, God,” I argued. “This is different. I am asking
you to protect my innocent children from unjust killing by evil enemies, not godly
surrender and sacrifice.”
“Trust is an act of surrender. And, godly sacrifice.”
He said. “I want you to trust me. I want you to say, ‘I trust you, Lord, no
matter what happens with my children. I trust you.' Give them to me because they are mine. And, Joiya, your
prayer should be, ‘Help them to love You, to dedicate themselves to You, to
know You and surrender to You so that when they die, they will be released back
into Your loving arms.’ Teach them that their lives should be like
lighthouses, showing others the way to Me.”
Even as I struggle with Ahmaud’s story and keep track
of his case, I have to be ever-mindful of the flesh in me that wants to hang on
to bitterness and resentment. I have to remember that He did not create me to be anxious. I have to send my children off into this world
with confidence, knowing that I have given them the tools to make a positive
impact, and surrendering them into God’s will and plan for their lives. Even in
my anger at the actions of racists, and my fury at a justice system that has
two different sets of laws, depending on victim/perpetrator race, I have to
trust God that justice will be served by His mighty hand. I cannot see beyond
this mortal world into the eternal. The totality of existence has not been
revealed to me. So, I must pray. I must trust. I must surrender. And, I must
forgive.
