The Derek Chauvin verdict reveals the deep divide that remains in our country between races.
In a “post-racial” America (aka complete fiction for the foreseeable future), all citizens would look at the evidence and come to cold, rational, objective conclusions.
“These experts testified that the actions were not acceptable based on all current approved training and procedures. Thus, the latitude that being an officer of the law grants to the brave men and women who choose this dangerous profession is taken out of consideration. Consequently, this was a murder.”
There would be no talk of drugs in the victim’s system, insinuating a lesser person deserving of an unjust consequence.
There would be no talk of the angry or fearful White men with too much power having immunity from the consequences of his actions.
There would only be the facts (evidence), the presentation (the lawyers), and the conclusion (the jury). A decision would be made and it would ideally be very satisfactory for a large majority of the viewing audience *regardless of race.”
This person did something that constitutes murder from the definition that we have agreed upon in our collective society.
No larger context needed to pollute this very specific outcome:
“But if they convict this officer, then it means no police will ever be given the benefit of the doubt again.”
“But if he is not guilty, then police can act with impunity and continue to kill without due process.”
No. He is guilty or not guilty. Justice has prevailed to the best of its ability.
In the case of Derek Chauvin. He is guilty. Justice is served….
There is an ire of intentionality behind white violence against black people. But white violence against black men has been at the forefront lately. As I write this post, America has just been introduced to another death of a black man at the hands of a white police officer. There’s something about the history of black oppression in this country that today’s news just lays on the thickest layer of grief a black person in America can feel. Although George Floyd’s life needs to be shared, this story, unfortunately, isn’t about him.
It’s about Amy Copper and her attempt to threaten and likely kill a black innocent man. It’s deep. While Christian Cooper (not related) was in Central Park’s Ramble bird watching he noticed an unleashed dog. That is illegal in the Ramble and they have clear instructions on their website. He asked the dog’s owner, Amy Cooper, if she could please leash her dog. Among other things, unleashed dogs can harm other animals and humans. Instead of simply complying with a stated law, Amy decides to challenge Christian who then begins to record their interaction with his cell phone.
It’s important to note that this was his single greatest weapon during this interaction. What ensued thereafter is beyond reproach. Amy begins to approach him and he asks her to back up and she points at him and threatens to call the police. What gave Amy the right to threaten police on an unarmed and non-threatening man? She clearly didn’t like that he asked her to leash her dog and used his race as a weapon to call the police. It was truly disgusting to witness via Christian’s video footage, but it was real.
The threat of white violence utilizing police is disgusting. Amy emphasized that Christian was African-American in her call to the police. She said he was threatening her and her dog, whom by this time she was visibly chocking because she refused to leash it. Christian continued to record and posed no threat to her. Amy continued to Amy until finally leashing her dog and Christian thanked her and walked away. The ending shows that the police did arrive, but did not find Amy or Christian there because there was no real threat. There was only a disgruntled dog walker and a frustrated bird watcher who had an ugly interaction.
But we can’t leave this topic without thinking of the many times a 911 call has been used as key proof in a case against someone. Amy, without hesitation, called and told the police an African-American man was threatening her life. As we think about how easily a false accusation could have caused this Black man to lose his liberty or his life it is truly infuriating. What’s infuriating was Amy’s disregard for his life. In a follow-up interview, she told CNN “I’m not racist. I do not mean to harm that man in any way.”
Amy calling the police was intended harm. Highlighting his race on the call was intended harm. Faking an emergency to call the police was intended harm. Having your dog unleashed in an area that is illegal was intended harm.
Christian was simply asking Amy to comply with a stated law. Amy attempted harm and now expects her apology to suffice. This is trauma. This is black trauma. This is black male trauma. The Amy’s of the world must be stopped. And the Christian’s of the world must continue to record and share.
The Constitution is a term that’s used regularly in the political world and in right-wing circles. But it’s constantly misused like the term love, which is used every single day. There are many levels of love. It can go anywhere from love for your favorite sports team, love for a family member, and of course, the love of your life (at the time lol). But again, the term love is used all day, every day. And similar to the adjective “the,” there’s often not much meaning behind it.
Similar to “love” and “the,” the term Constitution is used improperly or rather without true meaning. We live in a time where many want to bring up their Constitutional right, whether they are left, right, or somewhere in the political middle. We often hear “It is my Constitutional right…,” “I am protecting my Constitutional right,” or, “They want to take away our Constitutional right…” and so forth.
The issue is many who are yelling protection of their Constitutional right do not even know what the Constitution says. They are clueless about how many Amendments are in the Constitution and what they actually state.
There are 27 Amendments in the Constitution. Some remember popular Amendments, such as #1 Free Speech, #2 Right to Bear Arms, or #5 Remain Silent. But as mentioned there are 27 Amendments, and I can guarantee you judges, police officers, and government officials constantly use many of them as justification for their actions despite not actually following the law.
Let’s deal with the Second Amendment for today. Many gun activists believe that the Second Amendment is their only God-given right and the most important. They also believe that this Amendment justifies having 18-20 guns to protect themselves including military-like weapons. This may be true, but this is not the law of the Amendment nor is it the purpose of its creation.
Because these activists have chosen not to use the Amendment properly, they have subsequently created a Stand-Your-Ground Law. Stand Your Ground Law states that you have the right to use your gun to stand your ground when you feel your life is threatened. But these activists are using their guns any way they want because they believe the Second Amendment and Stand Your Ground Laws give them that right and justify their actions. Once again something that is not accurate. And what we’ve discovered is “Stand-Your-Ground” really means Whites can stand their ground and Blacks & minorities have no ground to stand on. Blacks can’t say, “I am standing my ground because I fear for my life.” Blacks cannot walk up and down the street waving a gun or have a large gun strapped across their chest and walk in a Burger King, gas station or Walmart without police or authorities being called. That phone call on that Black individual most likely will end in an arrest or murder by the police or civilians.
If we’re being honest, Stand-Your-Ground Law is another made-up law that allows White Americans to make civil arrests or take the lives of innocent people, mainly African-Americans. If it was really about protecting everyone then the law would also give African-American their fair protection and rights to STAND THEIR GROUND as well.
But the reality is it’s not for Blacks. They still believe how dare a Black man own a gun because that is NOT American so they must be up to some type of crime. How dare a Black man go golfing, take a jog, sit in first-class on a plane, or be in the park with friends.
But people used The Constitution as their American Bible to hide behind their hatred and evil speeches. Believing that The Constitution is their legal right to do whatever they want as long as they say my Constitutional rights. It’s the same ones that say, “Get over slavery it was a long time ago.”
But Blacks and minorities have Constitutional rights. It is their right to speak up, defend, and protect themselves and their families. It is their right to not be killed, shot at, or threatened. It is their right to vote, worship, love whom they deem fit, and it is their right to stand their ground and demand justice in our judicial system. The sad truth… justice is not blind, it can see real good. She sees color, skin tone, race, nationality, gender, sexual orientation, and income status. Justice is not blind and justice is not fair.So when will we make The Constitution something that protects and serves all Americans? Because it’s just not for White people.
I have a diverse group of friends. Over the years, I’ve had great conversations with my White friends about what my experience is as a Black American. Often in those various conversations, a few statements have recurred:
“I won’t ever know what it’s like to walk in your shoes”
“I don’t see color”
“I don’t know what I can do to help”
Generally speaking, all of these statements were said with good intent. So I’ve come up with a simple but impactful analogy that might help shift one’s thinking from apathy to care.
In my travels and most summers, I love to go to the beach. Growing up in Brooklyn, I never felt that I had a connection or access to picturesque beaches but there is calming quality in listening to the waves crash under the sunshine. I find that the beach is a great place to read a book, listen to music, have few drinks, and/or connect with friends. When I take out my beach bag to leave for the beach there is always something inside the bag that I don’t really need; sunscreen.
Now before you get all preachy on me about the dangers of skin cancer hear me out. First, my doctor tells me every year that I have a vitamin D deficiency. Second, my dark skin can absorb the sun’s rays and I’ve never gotten sunburned in America. Third, my skin looks radiant and I look great with a tan.
So why do I buy sunscreen and remember to take it with me to the beach? I know that when I leave the house for the beach that I will likely be going with other people, of lighter skin (i.e. White folks), who will need sunscreen or else they get sunburned.
Now, I’ve never had a bad sunburn but I have been around plenty of White folks who didn’t apply sunscreen properly and have gotten a bad sunburn. To be frank, it looks awful and extremely painful. Because I’m not apathetic, I’ve asked my White friends to share their sunburn experience with me. What does it feel like? When does it go away? What happens when you touch it? How does it heal? Why did you not apply sunscreen more effectively? You really have to go through this entire sunscreen application process before you layout? Why do you want to get a tan anyway? Yes, I know being darker is sexier but is all this worth it? So I’m thoughtful enough to leverage my Black privilege in this instance to bring sunscreen just in case.
Similarly, when I leave my apartment every day there are things that I have to think about that White folks don’t. I’ve previously written about some of the things that I have to think about when I leave the house. While I can’t speak for the 40+ million Black folks in this country, I can tell you that acknowledging our struggles under the metaphorical sun will go a long way to improving the racial discourse in this country.
You see, Black folks are familiar with the White experience in this country because that experience has remained prominently at the forefront of our culture. In an era where access to information is just a few clicks away, I’ve come to feel that some White folks are simply apathetic to our experience and choose to remain ignorant of the full spectrum of the Black experience. Folks choose to remain uninformed and believe, just as our current administration does, that only negative portrayals of our communities are worth highlighting.
In his usual eloquence, James Baldwin, explains the White apathy towards the Black experience as a segregated wall where there is no desire to peer over the other side of the wall because there is a conscious effort to remain ignorant of the Black experience.
In short, we want our White brothers and sisters to look over that wall, we want you to understand the complex spectrum of our experiences, we want you to be curious about how we live, we want our struggles under the metaphorical sun to be acknowledged, we want you to join in our interconnected fight against racism. We want you to bring sunscreen,even if you don’t need it.
“Most of the White Americans I have ever encountered really, you know, had a negro friend or a negro maid or somebody in high school. But they never, you know, or rarely after school was over or whatever, you know, came to my kitchen. You know, we were segregated from the schoolhouse door. Therefore, he doesn’t know – he really does not know – what it was like for me to leave my house, you know, leave the school and go back to Harlem. He doesn’t know how negroes live.
And it comes as a great surprise to the Kennedy brothers and to everybody else in the country. I’m certain again, you know, that like – again, like most White Americans I have, you know, encountered, they have no – you know, I’m sure they have nothing whatever against negroes. That is not – that’s really not the question. You know, the question is really a kind of apathy and ignorance which is a price we pay for segregation. That’s what segregation means. It – you don’t know what’s happening on the other side of the wall because you don’t want to know.”
February 23, 2020 – I don’t remember much about that day for myself. It was a Sunday so I probably went to church, came home and got in some comfortable clothes, and spent the rest of the day on the couch doing much of nothing. Within a couple of weeks, I’d be on lockdown in my home for the foreseeable future, unsure of when my life would get back to normal, if that ever was to exist again. It was on that day that 25-year-old Ahmaud Arbery decided to go for a jog in his Brunswick, GA neighborhood. Unbeknownst to him, a father and son would be out on the same road that day looking for trouble. You see, they kept their loaded shotguns in the back of the truck I’m sure just in case they passed some wandering deer, possums, or for the occasional menacing ni**er. Of course, they say that this Black man, jogging down the street trying to tend to his own health, “matched the description” they say of a burglary suspect. According to them, that’s when they grabbed their guns and decided to leave the house in an effort to pursue him on a “citizen’s arrest.” What happens from there is anyone’s guess, and the coward filming appears to be more concerned with catching the action than preserving a life considering that he later shared the video with friends bragging about what had happened.
I’m not going to spend a whole lot of time combing back through all of the details and facts that we can find on every major and minor news outlet. I don’t have the time to contemplate why it’s appropriate for the state of Georgia to allow people to get a haircut during the Covid-19 pandemic, but conveniently can’t find the means to arrest or bring charges against 2 men who have spent the last 2 months at home, alive, believing that they had every right to pursue another human being and kill him without any question. I’m sure that, after a couple of weeks, they assumed they were in the clear and that nothing would be done. The father and son had probably even turned their attention to protesting the loss of their own “freedom” during a time where people were dying, because it wasn’t directly affecting them so they wanted the privilege to move around freely again. After all, it’s their American right to do so!
My questions at this time are many, my anger is at a boiling point and I don’t have enough energy to process frustration. Instead, I find myself asking-
“Was Ahmaud not allowed to be scared when 2 men rolled up in a pick-up truck pointing guns at him?”
“Is it possible to fight back when strangers come out of nowhere and interrupt your peaceful jog by pointing a long gun at you and screaming at you in a way that must’ve rendered you confused and in shock?”
“Why is a very real threat to people who look like me always laced with questions and doubt, as if it’s some sort of made up, imaginary fantasy?”
“Are we still unable to acknowledge the history of domestic terrorism towards Blacks in this country? The kind that makes sure every Black child is given “the speech” by parents and elders from the time they are able to listen, and doesn’t stop even into adulthood because now a wife is also concerned that her husband may not make it home safely.
“Was my ability to feel pain stripped away when my ancestors had their children stolen from them at an auction block, never to be held or nurtured again? Am I still supposed to be that numb?”
“When do I get to feel what I want to feel- fear, hurt, frustration, pain- and express it without being labeled as “angry” and “black.”
I can’t say for sure what will happen this time. If the District Attorney is suggesting that it is taken to a grand jury, I can’t respectfully thank him for his consideration and walk away expecting justice to be served. What I am sure of, however, is that the courtesy that the Black community has extended to those who have hurt us over the past 400 years is wearing thin and patience is running out. I am educated and experienced, and this weekend will receive a doctorate degree. Yet, I personally will think twice about the vengeance I withhold, and will no longer be polite in my stance when the death Black and Brown people is a movie that can be played over and over again without even a warning label, as if to desensitize us all to the fact that Ahmaud was even human. Ask yourself when was the last time you even saw a video of a dog being killed that didn’t come with a warning or of “graphic violence and animal cruelty”? I’ll wait…
He’s neva’ gonna come see you play, he doesn’t love you.
Dribble, spin, hook shot, rebound.
You’re not good enough for him to come see.
I was alone at Monsignor King Hall before practice one morning, working on my footwork.
The neckline of my green t-shirt was soaked in sweat. I was in the gym working my eleven year old love handles off to perfect my patented “drop step to the baseline” spin move.
The sound of the basketball bouncing off the kelly green floor and the squeaking of my sneakers were like music to my ears.
The season before I had fallen in love with basketball as a ball boy for the Monsignor King tournament. I had to be close to the action for the LaSalle high school game to witness one the nation’s top prospects, Ron Artest, play in the championship game.
My first teammates at St. Thomas Aquinas (STA) were a group of special kids: Izzy Bauta, Mike Blake, P.J. Marshall, Joey Romano, Nick Russo, and myself. We were coached by local mailmen, Joe Romano Sr., who was Joey’s dad, and John Browning.
Our team was good. Like, legendarily good. Our first season together we made a splash in Catholic Youth Organization (CYO) with an outstanding record. We’d easily score about 60 points a game. Any given game each of the starting five players could score 12-14 points each. I am still waiting for the local Catholic newspaper, The Tablet, to do a documentary on our successful run. We were unstoppaBULL. Get my drift? It was 1997 and who didn’t wanna be like Michael Jordan? Chicago was on fire that year, and so were we.
That year, people started to talk about how historically dominant we could become if we continued to play together throughout the summer.
And that’s saying somethin’. NBA Hall of Famer, Chris Mullen, used to workout on that floor and rumors have it that he once broke the backboards at Monsignor King Hall while practicing for the Dream Team before the ‘92 Olympics.
Yeah, so you could say that we were almost NBA Hall of Fame, Dream Team level nice, ok?
Anyway, that spring, we had won our first championship on a corner buzzer-beater against St. Rose. We had tasted the sweetness of victory and I wanted to improve my basketball skills over the summer.
But inside our apartment on 2525 Bedford Avenue, my world was crumbling. Dad was never home and the only time I’d hear from him was when he played music on Sunday’s. Sometimes he’d be so into his records that it felt like I was invisible to him.
With the hurt and anger towards my father growing, basketball was a much welcome distraction to muddle the chaos going on in my home and in my young mind. I had asked Mom if I could join karate to blow off steam but my mom felt that I might have been too much of a brute and injure the other kids my age. Not to mention that she just did not have the time to take me to practice with all that was going on in her life.
So when I came home from school energetically rambling about my desire to want to play on the basketball team, my mom initially rejected the idea. But she saw how excited I was and she finally relented with a little persuasion from another parent who offered to take me to weekly practices twice a week.
The turbulence when my dad would come home and the size of our cramped apartment felt like flying through rough air in a small airplane. The uneasiness from the tension created a cagey atmosphere that left me suffocating with resentment from how he had treated my mom and me.
Basketball was an escape to another dimension where I could be free to release the stress of my emotions. The more I poured my energy into the game, the more it gave me the fulfillment I was desperately searching for.
(Silverback’s Note: Read Power of Love Part: I, here. Remember, click on the section hyperlinks to listen to the tunes.)
Inside Monsignor King Hall, her voice rumbles across the court.
“LET’S, GO, GREEN! LET’S, GO, GREEN!”
My mother, sitting in the wooden bleachers, leans back, takes a deeper inhale and continues to bellow. I can hear mom’s voice from the center circle.
Just like her prayer time every morning, that voice got louder, and louder, and louder.
I adjusted my yellow Rec Spec goggles as the referee was giving our team’s final instruction. I can’t even hear him.
“LET’S, GO, GREEN!” “LET’S, GO, GREEN!”
Soon it’s the only voice that everyone can hear in the gym. There’s six minutes on the game clock to begin the first quarter and the scoreboard is buzzing with electric current. Adrenaline is running through my veins. The referee toots his whistle and lobs the ball into the air.
I won the tip-off, and Mom switched to a more provocative cheer.
“YOU. CAN’T. BEAT THE GREEN, YOU CAN’T BEAT THE GREEN!,” she shouts as we got into our positions to run our first play of the game.
Looking back, her volume was a somewhat obnoxious level of support considering that our team was about to dismantle our opponents during the first few minutes of the basketball game.
Monsignor King Hall was the home court to one of the most ferocious boys junior high school basketball teams in the history of Brooklyn CYO sports.
From 1996 to 1998, the STA boys’ basketball team would rack up 149 wins and 1 loss. We didn’t have a team mascot or a nickname so our fans would cheer for us using the color of our green cotton t-shirts. Our loudest super fan was my mom, Madeline Louison. At 330 pounds, she was also our largest and most gangster, cheerleader as well.
I can feel her fierce love and undying support with every echo of her voice that rang through the gymnasium. It’s that same voice that I can still hear in the echoes of my mind, passionately encouraging me to push myself to be better to this day.
She’s still cheering me on and is the driving force behind my competitive passion. She’s still in my corner encouraging me to strive for more through the power of her love.
You see, Madi has always been the personification of the Bible. She embodies the ruthless ferocity described in the battles of the Christian Old Testament combined with the warm loving narrative of the redemption story told in the Christian New Testament. That’s how I described her to my therapist, anyway.
“You know I am an atheist, right?” Dr. Brown says to me in one of our early sessions.
“Yeah, that’s cool,” I respond as I am sitting across from him at a wooden table inside his apartment office.
“Tell me about your mother but with less Biblical references so I can understand,” he says with a slight grin that accentuates the shine in his brown skin.
I had just completed unpacking my father’s story of origin to my therapist and it was time to discuss my mother. I found myself in the therapist chair because I was experiencing an emotional block in 2014.
The woundedness of my father’s absence during my childhood and the effects of two colossally failed romantic relationships as a young adult had left me broken and searching for healing. I was struggling with emotionally connecting with humans – I felt unable to love.
“My mom and I have a really close bond,” I respond. “We’ve had to be there a lot for each other through the years…”
My goggles were foggy from the perspiration. It was scorching outside and I could feel the heat rising off the gravel courts in the Coney Island public housing complex.
Our Dream Team was playing in our first summer tournament. We had made it to the championship of the 2nd Annual Stephon Marbury Basketball Classic.
Our team had not played hard enough in the first half to be competitive. It was halftime and Coach Romano was red in the face.
“Get your heads outta’ your asses and focus!” Coach Romano growled at halftime. He usually didn’t cuss at us but when he did his Brooklyn-Italian accent really came out.
Izzy and I plop our dense 180-pound frames into the lawn chairs. We both stood about 5’8 and our knees were protruding off the edge of the nylon seats. I cross my arms in frustration.
The PA announcer had been talking nonstop during the first half and it was good to finally hear some music blaring from the speakers set up near the courts. Jay-Z’s debut album, Reasonable Doubt, was playing during a break in the action.
Our team was not accustomed with losing and we began allowing the unfamiliar territory to disrupt our flow.
One of the parents passed around a bag of frozen orange slices to cool us down.
“Put those orange slices down and focus, Andy!” my teammate P.J. shouted. “You’re not boxing out!”
Focus, I thought.
How could I focus when all I wanted was for my Pops to come watch me play ball? I had so much heaviness on my heart. All of my teammates’ dads were there to watch them play. Even the ones that didn’t get much playing time.
Why doesn’t he want to hang out with me? I got game.
It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate my mom being there. It was just that she didn’t know much about sports and I just wanted my dad’s guidance like all the other boys. Some of my teammates wondered if I even had a dad at home.
Basketball apparently was a “waste of time,” according to him but the game I loved had already given me more than he ever had.
“Pick your head up!” my mother commands. “Get your head in the game. You’re letting those little guys get the rebound over you!”
We were playing in a rough neighborhood against a gritty team of all Black players from Coney Island. I was the only Black kid on our team and you could tell that my White teammates or their parents had never played in such a lively environment. Matter fact, they were the only White people participating in the tournament, the only White people on the basketball courts, and most likely the only White people for a few blocks.
Far away from our home court and in strange surroundings we were down by 15 points. We had been down before but not by this large of a margin. The pressure of the deficit and the exuberance of the crowd was becoming increasingly stressful.
Maybe we weren’t as good as we thought?
The horn sounded to start the second half. I looked on as all of my teammates’ fathers assured their sons and provided final instruction.
At that moment, something switched inside of me. The separation from my own father felt more pronounced. I felt so alone, so unprotected, so wounded. In order to protect the vulnerability of my feelings, a menacing ball of anger ignited inside me.
Enough.
We inbound the ball and I beeline to my spot on the post and call for the ball with gusto. I wanted to get a bucket.
The shot went up and I found a body to crash into as the ball was in the air. I boxed out, snatched the offensive rebound out of the air and scored on the put back layup.
“Oh he’s a beast on the inside!” the color commentator says to start the second half commentary.
Damn right I am a beast! I’ll ball out without my Pops.
The sound of male validation sparked such a self-confident feeling inside of me that I began to chase it by playing harder.
“Great rebound, Andy!” shouted one of the White dads.
Keep rebounding, they can’t stop you.
We score on a few back to back possessions and cut into the lead going into the final quarter.
Every time I glanced over to the stands and remembered that my father was not there I felt my blood boil hotter and hotter. I wanted every damn rebound. I wanted every freakin’ loose ball. I wanted to squeeze every pebble on the basketball’s leather skin.
Who needs a Pops anyway?
I was on a roll and our opponents didn’t seem to have anyone on their bench to match my ferocity in the paint.
I began mouthing off at the referee after he called a loose ball foul on me. I was being too aggressive positioning for the rebound, he said.
“I didn’t even touch him!” I lashed out.
Okay… so I elbowed the kid. But I had no capacity to care even if I was playing on their turf.
“Callate la boca,” my mom shouts. I am chewing on my jersey to keep from erupting and I softly whisper into my jersey, “That’s such a bullshit foul call.”
Well, at least I thought I whispered it, as the referee whistles me for a technical foul.
Coach Romano is besides himself and Coach Browning has to hold him back from yanking me off the court by the strap of my goggles.
He decided he can’t take me out of the game, we had the momentum and we needed a big body in the paint for rebounds.
Coach Romano found his composure and Joey huddled up our players at the center circle.
“Keep your head in the game big guy,” my teammate Joey said, slapping me on the head. “We need you in the game to win this.”
With Joey’s pep talk, I regained my composure and got back to dominating in the paint.
The game was back and forth as we entered into the final minute of the championship. We had clawed back to take the lead by one point with 42 seconds remaining on the game clock.
Just then, out of nowhere, a rainstorm soaked the court. Everyone scattered for shelter ending the game with mere seconds left.
When we all returned the following week to play, we had found our winning confidence. With NBA rookie sensation, Stephon Marbury, watching court side, we walloped their asses for the remaining 42 seconds left in the contest.
Marbury, A Kid From Coney Island housing projects, had just completed his rookie season for the NBA’s Minnesota Timberwolves as a member of the now iconic 1996 NBA rookie draft class that featured future all-time greats Allen Iverson and Kobe Bryant.
It was an odd way to end such a hard-fought game but we were going to meet an NBA player and take home a giant trophy. I couldn’t contain my excitement. I didn’t care much for Marbury at the time, other than that I could brag to my friends that I was somehow closer to Michael Jordan.
I can still hear mom as we victoriously left the basketball court that day.
“YOU. CAN’T. BEAT THE GREEN, YOU CAN’T BEAT THE GREEN!”
My mom and I were in a joyous mood on that drive home in the minivan. Boy, did we need that victory to lift our spirits. Winning gave us something to celebrate. I still wanted my dad to be there, but it was great to look up from the passenger seat and not see her tears.
Mom switched on the ignition of the minivan to pull off. The choir picks up mid track where the song had left off earlier in the day. This time the choir sounds so angelic, so sweet.
“Jehovah Rapha” the choir croons.
“You’re my healer…” mom and I triumphantly join in unison as we try to hit the high notes of the songs crescendo. We both sound terrible.
It was in Coney Island that I began to understand what the lyrics of that gospel song really meant.
Basketball had provided a space to set my pent up emotions free. Jehovah Jireh.
The game had supplied me with the confidence and male validation that I was craving in my father’s absence. Jehovah Shamma.
All undergirded by the support and the healing love that my little heart so needed. Jehovah Rapha.
In addition to my teammates, Mom and I have always been a team. I consoled her through the sting of her tears and she soothed the intensity of my rage. Our wounds shared a common source but the power of our love was more than enough to bring us through any challenge we faced together.
When I reflect on that era of our lives together, one of the tracks on my favorite album by Jay-Z comes to mind. The lyrics on Blueprint (Mama Loves Me) remind me of the things I asked God for in my nightly prayers as a child.
“Mama loved me, Pop left me…” Jay begins. “Mama raised me; Pop I miss you. God, help me forgive him; I got some issues…”
Thanks for always being more than enough for me, Mom. You’ve always been the answer to my prayers.
Like millions of fans, Kobe’s death affected me more than I thought it would. I didn’t know him, I wasn’t even a Lakers fan, but I respected him greatly. His preparation, his tenacity to compete, and his attention to detail made me root for him even when he was playing against my team.
As a Black male, I found myself in a weird place trying to understand why I couldn’t stop thinking about Kobe and Gianna and the rest of his family who was left behind to cope with his tragic loss. We’re taught at a very young age, directly and indirectly, that showing emotions is a sign of weakness. Under no circumstances do you cry or let others see you cry. But when Kobe died, people witnessed some of the world’s most notable Black men cry and show emotions. It was tough to watch because you could tell many of them tried to hold back the tears, and literally could not. The no crying rule in public had been broken. Sad because a man and his daughter died as well as 7 others in a horrific accident, but beautiful because it humanized Black men in a world that often strips them of their humanity.
But society continues to reinforce that crying, especially in public, is a negative attribute in every way possible. Combined with America’s fascination with sports… we don’t give our athletes time or space to show emotions, to live outside of their respective sport(s); and if you’re an NBA or NFL fan, chances are the subjects of such reinforcement are young Black men.
While the world witnessed notable Black men crying for weeks after the news broke and at the memorial service, they probably didn’t think much of it. But millions of Black men saw those same tears and raw emotions and realized it’s ok to do the same. And that’s a huge win for their long-term mental health, and ultimately their families and communities.I probably won’t immediately start crying the next time I’m hit with tragic news, but if it hits me hard… I now know it’s ok to do so. If WebMD and other studies are correct regarding crying helping our mental health, then by not doing so would do the exact opposite. Compound that by decades and decades of not crying, and you can imagine the negative impact and toll it can take on someone’s mental health and the communities they live in.
Most change isn’t easy, but most change is good, and inevitable.
We all wish Kobe and Gianna were still here. But if through Kobe’s tragic departure millions of Black men can realize that showing emotion is a strength and not a weakness, then Kobe might’ve made his biggest impact of all, and it had nothing to do with basketball.
Steyer – Seems like a nice guy. He’s not afraid to speak his mind. I used to actually think he was a Bernie Bro. ? Nope.
Klobuchar – I guess she was solid. No one went after her though that I can remember. I didn’t like how she pivoted away from condemning Bloomberg (because I loathe him). ?
Buttigieg – He seems like he’s fading and he’s fully aware. He still seems phony to me but I liked his facial expression at a certain point when Warren went after Bloomberg.
Warren – I loved her at the last debate but she should have changed the formula for this one. I felt her attacks on Bloomberg were useless tonight.
Biden – I want him to retire and be with his family. ??♀️
Sanders – He was on defense tonight. I’m miffed he didn’t get to respond to Pete saying something about private insurance still being offered in countries with universal health care while Sanders wanted to abolish private insurance after four years. From what I understand Buttigieg is incorrect. M4A would just limit what private insurance companies could do to avoid competition with public. Sanders had the best answer regarding marijuana.
Bloomberg – He came across as ignorant on race and marijuana. His paid for cheering section was annoying.
I think they all had somewhat equally good and bad moments. Some had more bad moments than others.
It’s all a blur.
I’ll definitely want to see the fact-checking for this debate.
There’s been a lot of debate about how many journalists have chosen to focus on Kobe’s 2003 rape allegation just moments after the news broke about him and his daughter dying in a helicopter crash on the morning of Sunday, January 26, 2020.
That same afternoon, Felicia Sonmez, a political reporter for the Washington Post, tweeted a 2016 Daily Beast article entitled, “Kobe Bryant’s Disturbing Rape Case: The DNA Evidence, the Accuser’s Story, and the Half-Confession.” People were outraged and quick responded to her tweet. Sonmez deleted her initial tweet but the damage had already been done.
Tracy Grant, a managing editor at The Washington Post, released a statement on Monday (1/27):
“Sonmez was placed on administrative leave while The Post reviews whether tweets about the death of Kobe Bryant violated The Post newsroom’s social media policy… the tweets displayed poor judgment that undermined the work of her colleagues.”
Did she display poor judgement?
Perhaps Lindsey Granger (below), a former journalist and current talk show host from the Daily Blast Live, offers a much-needed perspective on the role journalists should play in the immediate aftermath of such a conflicting and tragic incident.
A King is omnipotent. He cannot be questioned or challenged.
According to Sun Tzu, exuding supreme confidence is essential for victory; an enemy must never even perceive a chance to win. This is why many Kings project confidence at all times and never apologize.
However, once a King achieves power and influence beyond question or challenge, what happens if he acts or decides in a manner that is self-harming or detrimental to himself or his Kingdom? The Court Jester was a mechanism to perhaps mitigate such a situation.
An expert Court Jester could point out flaws of the King or the King’s Court in a humorous, seemingly innocuous manner, never earning the ire or Axe of the king. In this way, problems could be at least addressed, possibly considered, and at best resolved. It was a form of therapy for such a precarious system of governing, particularly for the laborers and peasants who were unable to express any malcontent with their monarch.
Although Kings have mostly disappeared from the world and been replaced by more Democratic systems of rule (at least in appearance), there still remains the archetype of “Kingship” mostly in the realm of the rich and famous.
Specifically in the art world, when these modern Kings rise to the level of unquestioned and unchallenged behavior, they can often do the most damage, particularly to themselves. Consider Elvis (The King), Michael Jackson (The King of Pop), and Prince (uhhhh… Prince) who all died of drug overdoses at some point after they rose to levels of wealth and power at which nobody could tell them, “No.”
So if Hollywood is the King of Pop Culture right now, Ricky Gervais is Hollywood’s Court Jester.
His monologue at the Golden Globes was everything that most of America would like to say to these “royal” people who are admired, powerful, talented, and beyond question or challenge, but cannot.
I personally loved every bit of his monologue and found none of it offensive (although none of it was directed at me, I admit). Nonetheless, I think we need Ricky Gervais more than ever right now, particularly when most of the country feels powerless and held hostage to the extremes of the Right and Left.
No movement, however virtuous, is infallible. If an idea or group is unable to be criticized or questioned, then that group is essentially invincible (like the King) and could ultimately use this power malignantly. The very idea of “untouchable” or “beyond reproach” is what someone like Ricky Gervais fights against. This explains why he has upset members of the LGBTQ community in his career as he has lambasted them along with every other group in existence.
To empathize with Mr. Gervais, I would agree that you have not truly earned equal rights until you can be ridiculed freely as the rest of us are. That’s why the term is “equal” rights and not “more than” rights.
So, for anyone who may have been offended by the Golden Globes monologue last weekend, let me go over his jokes a little for your consideration. Maybe this will help illuminate the necessity of such a Jester in our current socio-political climate.
I will also give Mr. Gervais a bit of criticism as well which, if you read his Twitter Account, he welcomes enthusiastically even going so far as to retweet bad reviews of himself or his shows; lest he ever becomes anything like the “King” he is currently so adept at criticizing.
Ricky’s jokes followed by my commentary:
Kevin Hart was fired from the Oscars for some offensive tweets — hello?
Pointing at himself, Gervais seems to question the double standard of preventing a black man from hosting an award show on account of anti-LGBTQ content, when a white man can post incredibly incendiary content and still host.
Maybe NBC is just braver than ABC – or more hungry for those controversy ratings?
Or maybe there is a stronger degree of wrongdoing by Hart who seemed to express genuinely anti-gay sentiments while Gervais simply ridicules LGBTQ out of the principle that everyone deserves to be ridiculed and nobody is above a joke, particularly when it comes from a place of inclusion and not malice?
Lucky for me, the Hollywood Foreign Press can barely speak English and they’ve no idea what Twitter is, so I got offered this gig by fax.
Obviously, he’s coming up with an outlandish explanation for why he was chosen to host in spite of his provocative Twitter comments and pretending that the HFP, who all live in Southern California, are literally Foreign and can’t speak English.
Let’s go out with a bang, let’s have a laugh at your expense.
Yes, surely the most privileged people in the world can be the butt of a joke.
Remember, they’re just jokes. We’re all gonna die soon and there’s no sequel, so remember that.
Characteristic Gervais throwing a bit of his atheism into it.
But you all look lovely all dolled up. You came here in your limos. I came here in a limo tonight and the license plate was made by Felicity Huffman.
The ultimate symbol of White Privilege finally facing justice. How could this crowd defend her?
No, shush. It’s her daughter I feel sorry for. OK? That must be the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to her. And her dad was in Wild Hogs.
While it is low-hanging fruit-making fun of an actor in a bad movie, it’s still funny to wonder who the daughter considers a worse parent: the one in jail or the one in a horrible film?
Lots of big celebrities here tonight. Legends. Icons. This table alone — Al Pacino, Robert DeNiro … Baby Yoda. Oh, that’s Joe Pesci, sorry. I love you man. Don’t have me whacked.
Appearance-mockery and pop culture reference in one joke… not very funny to me, but worked well enough for his crowd.
But tonight isn’t just about the people in front of the camera. In this room are some of the most important TV and film executives in the world. People from every background. They all have one thing in common: They’re all terrified of Ronan Farrow. He’s coming for ya.
Nervous laughter. Yeah, Farrow doesn’t mess around. He is out to shine light on the cockroaches of society and Hollywood is having its turn.
Talking of all you perverts, it was a big year for pedophile movies. Surviving R. Kelly, Leaving Neverland, Two Popes. Shut up. Shut up. I don’t care. I don’t care.
Even Catholics can’t escape the shadow of thousands – THOUSANDS – of covered up child molestation cases in just the last century alone. This is speaking truth to power and it’s not actually funny except that it’s David attacking Goliath so brazenly right in front of the Philistines.
This was the innocent child yelling: “The Emperor has no clothes!!!”
Many talented people of color were snubbed in major categories. Unfortunately, there’s nothing we can do about that. Hollywood Foreign Press are all very racist.
They are all international journalists.
We were going to do an In Memoriam this year, but when I saw the list of people who died, it wasn’t diverse enough. No, it was mostly white people and I thought, nah, not on my watch. Maybe next year. Let’s see what happens.
Increasing diversity in film has been one of the greatest achievements of this last decade. Black Panther alone will do more for young black kids who want to fantasize about themselves as the hero and aspire to be greater than any token character of the last century.
However, as Bill Burr labels it, “Overcorrection” can happen.
This joke simply warns about trying to apply the morality of “ensuring diversity” to every aspect of every part of the industry (like the In Memoriam).
I imagine a film about the Harlem Globetrotters will probably not require a quota of x amount of Asian, Hispanic, Middle Eastern, and White actors to play the roles of historically Black athletes from one of the most famously Black areas of the country.
No one cares about movies anymore. No one goes to cinema, no one really watches network TV. Everyone is watching Netflix. This show should just be me coming out, going, “Well done Netflix. You win everything. Good night.” But no, we got to drag it out for three hours.
Poignant. True.
You could binge-watch the entire first season of Afterlife instead of watching this show. That’s a show about a man who wants to kill himself ’cause his wife dies of cancer and it’s still more fun than this.
Shameless plug.
Spoiler alert, season two is on the way so in the end he obviously didn’t kill himself. Just like Jeffrey Epstein. Shut up. I know he’s your friend but I don’t care.
Hilarious. True. I wonder how many in this room have been to his island or on his plane.
Seriously, most films are awful. Lazy. Remakes, sequels. I’ve heard a rumor there might be a sequel to Sophie’s Choice. I mean, that would just be Meryl just going, “Well, it’s gotta be this one then.”
Low hanging fruit. It worked. Good for levity – which was surprisingly needed in such a brutally damning monologue.
All the best actors have jumped to Netflix, HBO. And the actors who just do Hollywood movies now do fantasy-adventure nonsense. They wear masks and capes and really tight costumes. Their job isn’t acting anymore. It’s going to the gym twice a day and taking steroids, really. Have we got an award for most ripped junky? No point, we’d know who’d win that.
I still don’t know who he means by this. Also, I whole-heartedly disagree with him and Scorsese about this. These superhero movies are for kids. Netflix is killing the budgets and demands for original, well-made quality movies in big theaters, not superhero movies.
Martin Scorsese made the news for his controversial comments about the Marvel franchise. He said they’re not real cinema and they remind him about theme parks.
Ha. I know my children will all watch Goodfellas, Taxi Driver, Gangs of New York, and Shutter Island on repeat until they are 16 and old enough for Marvel Movies.
I agree. Although I don’t know what he’s doing hanging around theme parks. He’s not big enough to go on the rides. He’s tiny.
A size joke is seemingly juvenile… but so is picking on kid’s movies when you are the greatest living director! So, well done.
The Irishman was amazing. It was amazing. It was great. Long, but amazing. It wasn’t the only epic movie. Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, nearly three hours long. Leonardo DiCaprio attended the premiere and by the end, his date was too old for him. Even Prince Andrew was like, “Come on, Leo, mate. You’re nearly 50-something.”
Low hanging fruit, again.
The world got to see James Corden as a fat pussy. He was also in the movie Cats.
Gervais really seems to hate Corden, at least in his comedy. After Life (which is pure brilliance) lambasts Corden also. I often find this problem with extremely intellectual people: they tend to cynically and inaccurately portray the heavily visceral artists and performers. It’s the “Lennon is great and McCartney sucks!” people.
There are a lot of colors in the rainbow, Ricky. What you may consider banal is often just a conduit for energy. Sometimes, “How’s the weather?” conversations are one person really just saying, “I care about you and just want to make sounds in your direction.” Go to a Coldplay concert. It’s beautiful in a different way from Tom Waits or Frank Zappa. Hierarchies are for fascists.
No one saw that movie (Cats). And the reviews, shocking. I saw one that said, “This is the worst thing to happen to cats since dogs.” But Dame Judi Dench defended the film saying it was the film she was born to play because she loves nothing better than plunking herself down on the carpet, lifting her leg and licking her minge. (Coughs.) Hairball. She’s old-school.
Now, it would have been even more outrageous and absurd if Mr. Gervais had this level of obscene mockery directed at Meryl Streep who was in the room, but Dame Judy Dench was a fine target for the harshest roast of the night.
Apple roared into the TV game with The Morning Show, a superb drama about the importance of dignity and doing the right thing, made by a company that runs sweatshops in China. Well, you say you’re woke but the companies you work for in China — unbelievable. Apple, Amazon, Disney. If ISIS started a streaming service you’d call your agent, wouldn’t you?
Dead on. Truth to power. Thank you, Ricky Gervais.
So if you do win an award tonight, don’t use it as a platform to make a political speech. You’re in no position to lecture the public about anything. You know nothing about the real world. Most of you spent less time in school than Greta Thunberg.
So if you win, come up, accept your little award, thank your agent, and your God and fuck off, OK?
This kind of sums up the mentality of most Americans and touches on why Trump won the election. They don’t trust Democrats or the Hollywood elite who are so clearly hypocrites.
Most Americans love Hollywood and what it has done for the world, but if it wants to remain King, it must listen to its Court Jester: Mr. Ricky Gervais.
Watch the entire 2020 Golden Globes by Ricky Gervais:
