Last week, the news broke that the police officers involved in shooting an unarmed black child for holding a toy gun would not be indicted for any measure of crime.
I missed this news breaking. I was busy celebrating my own son's 11th birthday party. His party of choice was not entirely unrelated to Tamir Rice’s death over a year ago. Since then, I’ve not allowed him to play with guns. So for his birthday, he wanted to go to a laser tag facility and play in an environment that was safe for him. Raising boys . . . you can think how you want about guns, but the desire to chase and pretend-shoot seems almost innate. And because I understand that, I allowed this seemingly harmless concession for his birthday.
The following night, the kids and I attended a Kwanza party at the home of a friend. There is a tradition, during a Kwanza celebration, to talk a moment to pay homage to those who have “gone before” . . . it’s a moment to recognize loved ones who have passed, or those from the African American community who have paved the way for others. The community takes a quiet moment to speak names, with each named followed by ashe, which means "let is be so.". As we sat, the room began to buzz with names. First, names I didn’t recognize. Relatives and loved ones.
Then, names I knew.
Dr. King
Ashe
Maya Angelou
Ashe
James Baldwin
Ashe
Then there was a pause. And a woman spoke another name I knew.
Sandra Bland
Ashe
Tamir Rice
Ashe
Trayvon Martin
Ashe
Their names felt heavy in the room.
There was a collective sense of importance in speaking their names . . . and in remembering the loss of lives and honoring those whose lives have provoked a renewed fight for justice and for black lives.
And yet still . . . I couldn't bring myself to write about Tamir.
I usually have plenty of words to say about racial justice, but in the case of Tamir, I could not bear to have to sit down and try to convince an audience of readers why they should care that no one was charged with shooting a young man for playing with a gun. What is there to say, really? Do these facts actually need editorializing?
Do I need to write a response? To weight in? Does this story warrant an opinion that isn't completely evident in the facts of the case?
A boy was playing with a gun. He was 12 years old. He was shot before the police car stopped moving. He was left to die like a wounded animal. He was not given aid. His sister was tackled and cuffed when she arrived on the scene and expressed grief. He laid on the ground with no one attending to him. A child.
And a grand jury decided this was legal.
I could go on about his age, and his height, and the similarity to my own son. I could try to personalize this for you . . . I could give you the "nice white lady perspective" of having a black son and the fear that is inherent in that so that I could try to provoke more empathy from those who don't get the outrage.
But I shouldn't have to do that.
What is there to say about Tamir Rice that isn't already self-evident?
I'm left with very little to say, except that I'm terrified.
I missed this news breaking. I was busy celebrating my own son's 11th birthday party. His party of choice was not entirely unrelated to Tamir Rice’s death over a year ago. Since then, I’ve not allowed him to play with guns. So for his birthday, he wanted to go to a laser tag facility and play in an environment that was safe for him. Raising boys . . . you can think how you want about guns, but the desire to chase and pretend-shoot seems almost innate. And because I understand that, I allowed this seemingly harmless concession for his birthday.
The following night, the kids and I attended a Kwanza party at the home of a friend. There is a tradition, during a Kwanza celebration, to talk a moment to pay homage to those who have “gone before” . . . it’s a moment to recognize loved ones who have passed, or those from the African American community who have paved the way for others. The community takes a quiet moment to speak names, with each named followed by ashe, which means "let is be so.". As we sat, the room began to buzz with names. First, names I didn’t recognize. Relatives and loved ones.
Then, names I knew.
Dr. King
Ashe
Maya Angelou
Ashe
James Baldwin
Ashe
Then there was a pause. And a woman spoke another name I knew.
Sandra Bland
Ashe
Tamir Rice
Ashe
Trayvon Martin
Ashe
Their names felt heavy in the room.
There was a collective sense of importance in speaking their names . . . and in remembering the loss of lives and honoring those whose lives have provoked a renewed fight for justice and for black lives.
And yet still . . . I couldn't bring myself to write about Tamir.
I usually have plenty of words to say about racial justice, but in the case of Tamir, I could not bear to have to sit down and try to convince an audience of readers why they should care that no one was charged with shooting a young man for playing with a gun. What is there to say, really? Do these facts actually need editorializing?
Do I need to write a response? To weight in? Does this story warrant an opinion that isn't completely evident in the facts of the case?
A boy was playing with a gun. He was 12 years old. He was shot before the police car stopped moving. He was left to die like a wounded animal. He was not given aid. His sister was tackled and cuffed when she arrived on the scene and expressed grief. He laid on the ground with no one attending to him. A child.
And a grand jury decided this was legal.
I could go on about his age, and his height, and the similarity to my own son. I could try to personalize this for you . . . I could give you the "nice white lady perspective" of having a black son and the fear that is inherent in that so that I could try to provoke more empathy from those who don't get the outrage.
But I shouldn't have to do that.
What is there to say about Tamir Rice that isn't already self-evident?
I'm left with very little to say, except that I'm terrified.
Source: What can be said about Tamir Rice?
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