As I wrote a few days ago, in anticipation of the demise of Open Salon, I installed a Firefox addin, DownThemAll, which promised to "batch download" most of my blog posts at the click of a mouse.
It did. And it also sucked all of them down from Open Salon permanent. I will be reposting them as they were that day, comments and all. What really hurts is that the stats they had--this one had reached over 30000 views--are now wiped out, too.
You may comment again, of course, 'way down at the bottom. But...the damage is done. I just want them all back up here for "history's sake." I do have copies and Google offered up cached versions that I could snatch the html code from.
So here's the Trayvon piece that landed me on Democracy Now, eventually...
Donna Summer does the "Working Girl Beep"
Me, back when I heard that beep 'way too often...
I’m not going to comment on the 911 calls, the police negligence or the firestorm that followed Trayvon Martin’s death.
I’m just going to tell you why I’m not shocked that it happened or that the man who shot Trayvon Martin wasn’t arrested. And why even knowing all that…hearing him screaming for help seconds before he was murdered made me cry bitter tears.
And brought back the memory of another dead black boy, whose mother I knew and still admire for the electrifying and unforgettable lesson she taught us in his name.
I’m just pouring out my soul here, so it’s gonna be kinda ugly. But so is what happened to Trayvon.
“Walking While Black” has been an issue since…slavery. But if you’re black woman walking in certain places at certain times…there’s a little twist to that “offense”. Here are my “walking while black” stories.
And every black woman I know has at least one or two just like them. The sole difference between Trayvon’s story and ours is that we usually live to tell ours. But sometimes…we’re too ashamed…
Working Girl—the gist of it all
This is the basic story. The better stories, variations on this theme, follow.
As a reporter for the Chicago Sun Times, I was often out late at night or in the wee hours of the morning covering stories or taking a late shift…whatever the job required. And I lived in a very popular and very congested area of Chicago at the time, where it was nearly impossible to park, even late at night.
So I tended to take cabs or buses—especially in winter when my car was invariably buried in huge drifts of snow. I always stood on relatively busy corners, but I was usually the only woman out so late/early.
But even if there was lots of traffic and people walking or even standing there with me waiting for that bus…I knew it wouldn’t be long before I got the “working girl beep.” Especially if I was well dressed for some sort of gala event or more formal setting…or, actually, even if I wasn’t particularly well dressed.
Black men would beep and wave, or call out a hearty, “Go ‘head, Shorty!” and keep going. Not one ever pulled over. Only white men did that.
If he was a young man driving what he thought was a hot car, he’d ease up to me and give me a little once over and a smile, waiting for me to tip on over and run down my “menu.” IF I hadn’t already started walking toward the next bus stop or back toward my building.
On occasion, I would just look away, and wait and see if I got the, “Oh, what? You too good for me? You think you’re too good for me, (fill in any obscene or insulting racial epithet here)! F*** you, anyway!”
Sometimes, they went into a loud, livid diatribe about how maybe I only liked those big black…well…you get the picture. But whatever they said, I learned to take off running if the streets were really deserted, because they invariably came back to try again and cuss even more if I still ignored them.
Older white guys cruised me nervously and usually did not speak. I always felt as if they were married and either new to cruising or just had better instincts than the younger ones, and knew in their hearts that I wasn’t really “in the life”. So they usually sped off as soon as I turned my gaze away.
But aside from the cussing, I was never actually threatened…or, not with violence. And that leads me to:
The Beverly Hills Hotel incident—followed by another one just like it but ‘way more serious
This first one is one of my favorites. The ones that follow still make my blood boil.
But the “funny” one first.
I was staying at the very famous Beverly Hills Hotel, the Pepto Bismol pink second home to sooooo many stars I won’t even go there right now. Except to add that at the time I was there, wanna be stars used to have themselves paged in the pool area, just so that they could strut their stuff past all the agents and managers and directors and whatnot that hung out there.
It wasn’t cheap, but it was a great place to stay if only because when you told someone you were staying there, they kinda freaked out a little bit. And this one time I was there just to be there—not working, just resting and having an LA adventure without a deadline to meet.
And while I was there, a huge mansion just a couple of blocks away had become the talk of the town. It had been bought by a Middle Eastern billionaire who had promptly painted it a garish green, and had all of the nekked statues around the grounds and fountains made more “true to life,” with flesh colored paint and black pubic hair.
I wish I was kidding. But I’m not. I saw it with my own two eyes.
Because one day, having found out exactly where this house was, I decided to take a stroll and get a good look. And I got there without any problem. I did a slow stroll past the train wreck to get a good look, and then walked a up aways before crossing the street to walk back on the other side of the street, for one last look to confirm that I’d really seen what I’d seen.
And on my way back, I was followed and then stopped by an LAPD cop—I still believe it was because someone saw me and called 911.
He got out and stood in the street by his squad car giving me a pretty icy glare. And then he asked me where if I worked for someone “around here.”
I told him I didn’t.
So he asked me where I was headed.
I told him.
And then he smiled a little. A real smarmy, “NOW, I get it,” smile. And I remembered that a lot of the women in the lobbies and bars of the best hotels were “on the take,” so to speak.
I didn’t smile back.
So he asked me if he called the front desk would they ring my room or…something like that.
I said, “That’s a great idea. Give ‘em a call.”
And when his face turned to stone, I realized I’d made a big mistake.
He explained to me in a very serious voice that a “stranger” walking up and down the streets in that particular neighborhood was always “kinda suspicious.”
And then he walked around the car and leaned against it.
“Can I see some ID?” he asked.
I thanked God then and there that I had brought my wallet along—why I had brought it, I have no idea, but it was in my pocket. So I produced, for his viewing pleasure…
My Chicago Sun Times press card.
Oh, snap.
He stared at it for a long time, his expression now rather befuddled. I think he was trying to figure out if it was counterfeit or something.
And then he looked up and said, “I call this number, they’ll know you?”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and just said, “That’s another good idea.”
Which…was as bad as rolling my eyes would’ve been. And if I’d been a black male…I probably would’ve been thrown on the car or the ground and handcuffed right about then.
But he was turning really, really red in the face. And he started to explain, without the smirk, that it really was true that people didn’t usually walk around a lot “over this way.” It made people kinda nervous. And of course…it was a woman, walking up and down, so…
I didn’t ask him to complete that thought. But he had another one for me.
“You’re not gonna write about this, right?” he asked me. Sincerely rattled.
It was my turn to do the smirky smile.
I said, “Nah. Probably not.”
The “probably” was just to rattle him a little more. It did.
“Seriously, I just was makin’ sure, you know? These people around here, they get jumpy. “
I didn’t respond to that.
So he said, “I mean…c’mon, you’re not gonna call and tell ‘em…”
I told him it wasn’t that big a deal. And he exhaled...and told me to be careful about “that stuff” from now on, before rushing back to that driver’s seat and pulling away. And even after all that, he went kinda slow until I strutted into the lobby.
Poor thing, I bet he waited a good long while for his boss to call him into his office and give him hell for harassing a reporter. But I kept my word about our little encounter. Until now.
A variation on that theme:
I’ll cut to the chase. I was taking a short cut through a rather wealthy suburb of Chicago on the way back to the Sun Times after a concert, when I stopped at a light, and a squad car “whooped” and pulled up beside me.
The cop pointed to the curb, so when the light changed, I pulled up and over. And he got out, walked up to my window and told me it was kinda late for me to be out driving around. And asked me, with one of those smirky smiles, if I lived “in town here.”
I said, “No,” and he smiled a little more and said, “I didn’t think so.”
He kinda complimented me on my “real sharp” outfit. And then he sort of leaned down ‘way too close to my face, and said, “You know…if you’re nice to me…you can be on your way, no problem.”
I was angrier than I could say or show at that moment. This was the kind of no-win situation no woman wants to be in. And that too many women of color find themselves in far too often.
That’s when I decided not to wait for him to ask for ID. I said, “Look, I’m a reporter for the Chicago Sun Times and I’m reviewing a show--see that press thing on my dash there?”
He craned. And indeed, I did have a press parking pass that I could use to park almost anywhere I wanted when I was on the job.
I also showed him my press card. And given that this was very near Chicago…he got really, really scared. The Sun Times had a reputation for doing exposès on all kinds of corruption in the area. They had even bought a bar and put hidden cameras in it, to catch cops and government officials taking bribes.
So he was sure he was on “candid camera,” too, I think. And he said almost the same thing the other cop had said.
“Aw Jeez. You’re not going to write about this, are you?”
I didn’t have time to play with this one—I had a deadline. So I said, “I’ve got bigger fish to fry, believe me.”
And he was so glad I’d said that that he didn’t even realize that I’d just sort of wised off to him. He told me to drive safely (I love that part) and took off. I checked my mirror a few times to see if he was following me, but he absolutely wanted no trouble.
Walking a dog while black
I should’ve seen this coming. The Oro Valley, AZ police had already questioned my ex-husband one day when he was sitting outside of our apartment waiting for our daughter to come out for a day with Daddy.
When I went outside to find out why Dad was being questioned, I was told that there’d been a few robberies around our way lately and--get ready, because they really do say this—Daddy “…fit the description. Hispanic male, kinda tall…thin…”
“He’s not Hispanic. He’s Hopi,” I said. Which…didn’t really matter since the cop wouldn’t have known the difference, really.
But it caught him up short anyway. And after a few more lame excuses, he looked at our daughter who’d come outside to find out what was going on, and loped back to his squad car and left.
Again, this shouldn’t have surprised me. A few weeks before that, a few of my Hispanic and black students started walking from the “snob school” a few blocks from our apartment hoping to escort me to the championship game they were playing.
They never got there. A cop followed and then stopped them. And when they explained who they were, he glared at them even harder.
But he turned around and headed back toward the school. And the boys were so mad that they played harder than I’d ever seen them play. And they lost because of a strange “problem” with the clock that nullified a final basket.
We did some serious discussions and essays about how males “of color” were treated in neighborhoods like that. They had some incredible stories to tell. And were relieved to be able to tell them to someone who wouldn’t tsk and tell them they were “too sensitive” or too quick to play the “race card.”
So….let me get to the point, finally. I told you this would be ugly.
One morning around 6 a.m., I headed out, as usual, to walk our beloved Pomeranian, now much missed and lovingly remembered, so that I could get back and get my baby up and ready for school and myself ready for work on time.
Because it was still dark at that time of year, I was wearing a t-shirt, baggy pajama bottoms, curlers and some sort of jacket—I don’t remember what kind. And fuzzy slippers, too. Real “sharp outfit,” right?
And about mid-block I was suddenly blinded by a very bright light.
I shielded my eyes and then could make out, in the street just ahead of me, a squad car that had stopped. The cop had turned that big light they have up by the rear view mirror on the driver’s side.
I didn’t stop. I was in no mood to deal with this nonsense at 6 a.m. a few feet from my house.
I let Bijou do her business, turned, and walked back to the house with the light and the car still following me. And then I went into my house and peeked through the blinds. He was still sitting there.
I guess some black woman with curlers, baggy jammies and a toy Pom on a leash had robbed a house recently—who knows?
But by the time I went out to the bus stop with my baby girl and all her pals, and Bijou, too…he was gone.
The Emmett Till connection
So, again, it was no surprise when I heard that a 17-year-old Black kid with a bag of Skittles and a can of iced tea was shot by a neighborhood vigilante who followed him around the gated community because he looked “suspicious.”
Or that the murderer hadn’t been arrested, despite his history of overstepping his appointed duties—he’d made dozens of similar 911 calls before deciding, this once, not to heed the dispatcher’s warning to stop following the “suspect” and leave it to the police.
His mother has asked the media to stop playing that the 911 call with Trayvon’s terrified cries in the background. But I believe she should follow the lead of my my 5th grade teacher, Mamie Till-Mobley, who made an extraordinary and painful decision when she brought the battered, water-bloated body of her teenage son, Emmett Till, home to rest at last.
She kept the casket open. She wanted the world to see what had been done to her baby boy. Because she knew that one look at that ravaged, misshapen “thing” in the casket would say more about the world in which such things could happen to a teenage boy than any sermon or speech.
We need to hear those bone chilling screams and the shot that killed Trayvon seconds later.
Yes, it’s a parent’s worst nightmare come true.
But it might finally wake the whole world.
I hope this gets thousands and thousands of views.
It is shameful that ANYBODY is FORCED to write about this. How I WISH you got an EP for writing about some WONDERFUL DREAM but as you say "the whole world" needs to wake up from these nightmares now. May Trayvon's screams be THE screams that are heard around the world. How's that for a wish?
I must admit-
I just recommended "for review."
I lost a bit of boldness in translation.
;-)
now it seems like every generation needs to be taught how to pick up the struggle for equality and justice just where the previous generation left off...
This Trayvon Martin case is pivotal. There is no way they are going to get away with this miscarriage of justice because there have been too many of us who barely escaped the same fate. And I agree with you. While I can understand his mother not wanting to hear her baby's terrified screams for help before that gut-wrenching gunshot went off, it needs to be played over and over and over until all the so-called apologists for Zimmerman's behavior and for the unconscionable lack of action on the part of the police department can get it through their thick heads that this was a cold-blooded murder.
Lezlie
"What would happen if one woman told the truth about her life?
The world would split open."
Stories like yours help us see the truths. Mamie Till-Mobley's brutal truth reveals a world split open. You make a powerful Emmett Till/Trayvon Martin connection.
Rated for creeping hopelessness.
These stories may turn a white privileged or simply naive or ignorant or actually credulous reader into thinking how bad it was- well, I'm glad you were OK, but you were a credentialed reporter: the rape and forced oral sex that cops, particularly in the south, but also the white cracker cops of old Harlem and Oakland, well, those are stories so numerous as to actually be qualified for statistical analysis.
A very striking and highly instructive example was the Southern White Klan Haters response to, of all company's, Fox's (yes, they used to be socially conscious, if you can believe it :( classic film about Southern cracker haters, the highly regarded, "Pinky"- not actually incredibly, once you realize denial is a way of life for hating racist cracker KKK Tory Cavalier scumbag rape artists and murderous lynchers, they howled like crazed hyenas at the release of the movie as one scene had two cracker (yes, I use the word and won't stop- f'ing crackers!) cops about to rape Pinky, and slapping around another black woman (art imitates life) as the star of the film she was saved by the sudden appearance of a witness- well, this is the true story of hater cops and women of color, rape or forced oral sex in exchange for going on your way home.
Anyone with a problem with this needs either immediate truthful education or extensive psychological counseling to deal with their sheeple brainwashing.
I personally love lunching at the Polo Lounge, but, I always valet and then drive the hell out of there, not make the mistake of actually walking or even touring the "hood" by car.
Where are you OS right wing haters, how come you are suddenly the most silent cowards on the planet? Oh yeah, because here you'll get blowback for your hate and misogyny, while you can spew your cancer on Yahoo comments (read some, horrible cracker hate everywhere) or just go to red state dot com or, worse, some militia site, and listen to the goons say what a good job Zimmerman the coward hater did ... that is why we spell AmeriKKKa ... speak up haters!!! We want to see the real you.
I have only one thought "OMG!" It was a rising mantra as I read through your post. If any man pulled up to me on the street and basically asked "How much?" I would tell him, "Probably two years for soliciting."
But since I'm white, I could get away with that. I can't imagine the horror of keeping that bottled up, or worse, having to make a run for it.
I then understood the horror and pain African Americans must feel all the time. Most whites simply don't ever find out, and so not enough Americans will stand up. I too hope this story does not go away and I think your post helps.
The enemy here is the mountain of ignorance that we have inherited from tired, useless politicians, people with something to sell -- protect us. Well people, they did a real good job, the insurance that we bought here is costing us, now, that the flood of violence is rising ... The new leaders have no answer, other than to pass 'Stand Your Ground' laws, which protect no one, other than some politicians' chances for re-election. Imaginary self-defense is still braking the law. This fatuous creep that was Barney Fife with slower wit and a Glock, is being protected by bad people elected and bad law, all in the name of protection!
Who will protect us from such people?
When my husband got stopped for "suspicion of shoplifting" a couple of weeks ago, he assured me "nothing has changed." I argued that things HAVE changed. "We have a Black president, for Christ's sake," I insisted.
I want to believe things have changed.
I know he is right. And it makes me cry.
The end of this boy's life makes me cry the hardest. ~r
A change MUST come. And that young boy with the big doe eyes may be the sacrificial lamb who forces the whole world to finally "see" what so many young black, Hispanic, Asian and Native American and other children of color and of both sexes already have. I must add the LGBT kids who are preyed upon similarly, and perhaps even more vehemently in certain communities.
Trayvon is a symbol of all of the injustice suffered daily by millions. And I say, again, that perhaps his death be that "wake up call" we so desperately need.
"Go 'head, Shorty!"
I was never just a pretty face. But experience has given me a deep wisdom that shines soooo much brighter now. Still...it's a kick to look upon the younger me, and congratulate her for showing such poise under pressure...
I haven't heard anything about the case you've revealed to us. But...I wish I could say I was surprised. I just can't.
Now that I'm older and wiser, your horrific recountings affected me even more powerfully. I am flooded with anger and frustration that no matter what we did, what we do, it's never enough! Ignorance and blind fear and hatred stay too strong, just out of reach. At least we can all benefit from your courage and wisdom. It gives me hope.
Rated.
My beau decided to see what would happen if he drove the car one morning. And almost immediately after getting on the highway, he was stopped. But when he got out of the car, the cop startled and then grinned.
"I knew this wasn't that boy's car," he said.
And my beau said, "What boy?"
"That boy from overseas somewhere. With the accent. Black boy."
And my beau said, "Ah, Vukile! This is his car. I'm just borrowing it for the day."
And the cop apparently gave him a blood curdling stare and said, "Boy, you got the wrong kinda friends..."
From then on he was very, very watchful whenever we went out in that area--very protective of me, most of all. We both had learned a valuable lesson about our new home state from that.
Each time, it took a part of humanity away from this world.
Again, sorry this happened to you!
One minor correction: it was not an LAPD cop. It was Beverly Hills PD, because both that house (oh, boy, did it twist the locals' knickers in a bunch! Here's a link to a representative story on it) and the "Hotel California" are in BH. The fact that he was alone is proof that someone called it in thinking you were looking for "business." (LAPD squad cars always carry two. Unless it's a sergeant out for a spin.)
rated with love
To the rest of you...I'm grateful and humbled by your comments and the experiences many of you relate are just more evidence that something is very, very wrong in this country, still, when we have to endure such injustice every day of our lives.
I really do believe that child's death is making a difference. I just wonder how long we'll continue to care. He's the "cause celebre" right now, but that may change as soon as a new outrage takes over the front page.
In those days the national headquarters of the Aryan nation was located in Ohio a little north of Cincinnati area. Pre 9/11 we had metal detectors set up and special security when Morris Dees spoke on campus, brought by NKU groups including Chase College of Law. There had been death threats.
It really is not an accident that the Underground Railroad Freedom Center is located on the river in Cincinnati. So much learning to do.
Too many children are buried in this country. All of our souls know it.
The eight-grade math of massively frisking New York City's minorities: After -- crime was reduced by 4X, stop-and-frisk went up by 6X = 24X as many frisks per reported crime.
This means -- either -- that those police officers and administrators responsible for reducing crime to 25% of what it was were totally remiss and neglectful in their patrol duties (wouldn't that be a contradiction in terms?) -- or -- that the Fourth Amendment has been totally suspended for New York City minorities (the mayor's intended victims?).
Could 24X increase in frisking be a move by Mad King Bloomberg* to reduce the numbers of the less affluent and minorities -- to make room for more of their opposite numbers? ???
3 reports of walking Blacks.
I KID YOU NOT! My father and I were appalled. My dad, who was a lawyer went to the association and threatened them with a lawsuit. His main argument was "should they crawl? and that would be ok?" Needless to say it didn't make him many friends but within a few years the neighborhood slowly became diverse so that by the time my kids were around it is now a completely diverse area. This was the early 70's but it still makes me cringe. When my daughter was in a different state because of Katrina she made me drive 400 miles to get her because the school she was in did not celebrate MLK Day because as was explained to her "do you see any blacks here?" I didn't want to drive 8 hours but I did and it was one of the proudest moments of my life.
I teach English at a large commuter university in the south, and I frequently assign Brent Staples' "Just Walk on By: Black Men and Public Space" in my freshman comp courses. This entry will (sadly) make an excellent companion piece. Thank you for teaching me something new (to me) today.
And if your name is George Zimmerman, what are you going to do if I decide you scare me (I'm an old man, and sick) and shoot you? Could happen if you come to my part of Florida...
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Sadly, I am surprised by none of this. Where I live as a white man, I hear prejudice regularly, and it is assumed that I agree, which of course, I don't. One of the those who responded here made reference to our country's mental illness, which I find sadly true.
Why do people celebrate hatred, when they could be celebrating life.?That is a question we must all answer. Critical thinking, and compassion seem to be unappreciated by far too many in this world.
Personally, I believe in modeling, and being the best me, I can be.
Let us love one another.
As a straight white male, I understand how others who look like me fail to see the racism still rampant in our country and the fact that we (I) benefit from white privilege.
But what I find interesting/disturbing is that whenever I bring up the fact that we benefit tremendously from white privilege (on comment boards or in person), I'm usually confronted with plenty of angry and defensive push-back.
I think a lot of white folks hear that and think I'm saying that all white people are racist and that we should be ashamed of ourselves. That's not it, of course, and I'm really proud of my background and who I am. Understanding white privilege doesn't mean wallowing in white guilt.
But anyway, thanks for giving me more stories to use as examples of white privilege.
PS as a kid and into my 20's I had a recurring dream. I would be in a plane crash, it was always Chicago, and after death, I was this cute little black girl dancing along some train tracks. Maybe that is the real essence of why i've always been color blind.
By the time I reached the end, I could barely see straight. Gotta get my coffee to try to calm down and some band-aids to cover my scars.
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