Silently Black in America

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“Hey Joseph what do you think about all of those people rioting out in south central LA?”, one of my Football coaches asked me. After a few moments of awkward silence, I shrugged my shoulders and just said “I don’t know”.  He then said, “Well, I think they are a bunch of thugs acting like animals. What idiots burn down their own community?” I wanted to say to him, “people who feel like they have nothing to lose, people who do not feel like they are a part of this country, people who others view and treat like animals and who are expected to take their oppression silently. People like me.” But I said nothing. All I could do was listen to him and then walk away. Because I knew my livelihood as a black athlete looking to escape from this 93 percent white High School to go to college depended on me making him and the people who I was surrounded by, feel comfortable by remaining silent. 

I was just a young teenager growing up in the Oklahoma when the LAPD was caught on tape beating Rodney King and found not guilty. For 6 nights straight I ran home as fast as I could after track practice to sit on my bed and watch the news coverage. I could not help but to go through a range of emotions as I saw young people who looked like me, had suffered police harassment like me and were hurting like me, protest and riot in the streets of South Central. Given the fact that I had grown up in a very racist and conservative state like Oklahoma, I understood all too well the negative run-ins with police and the overall inequities that ravaged so many black communities that sparked the fires. In many ways the plight of Black kids living in Oklahoma was no different than that of those living in the much larger and more well-known cities of the US.

Like them we suffered the same ills like Police harassment, poverty, gangs, drugs and brokenness. But in many other ways our suffering was very different. Unlike urban America where millions of black people live, and in some areas are the majority. Black people in rural America are small in numbers like my home state of Oklahoma where black people only make up 6 percent of the entire population and are surrounded by extreme conservatism and racism, so we suffer silently. We suffer from the lack of media coverage of the injustices we experience. We suffer from the lack of culture that helps one develop knowledge and love of oneself, and we still continue to suffer from the effects of The Black Wall Street massacre which resulted in thousands losing their homes, families and lives, but never received a dime in reparations. We are not allowed to be happy about black progress as my family and friends experienced the day after our first black President was elected. They were forced to remain silent at work or face the prospect of termination if they gloated, while their conservative white coworkers had free reign to outwardly express their anger over President Obama’s election. Nor can we outwardly express our pain from oppression as we currently see today in the lack of protest and silence in the more rural areas of America, just as I longed to express the same anger, outrage, and pain that the kids in LA expressed back then as a teen. I know that there are many in rural America today who feel the same way, but are forced to remain silent as their lively hoods are at stake.

It is my hope that the movements that are happening around the country in the more populated areas eventually make their way down to the places where some of the greatest acts of police brutality and racial oppression are happening. Where the people have no voice and many are afraid to speak up. Where the only right we have is the right to remain silent.

As I now share time between DC and NYC and stand in solidarity with those who march in the fight for justice, I also stand with my brethren in middle and rural America who are not yet able to stand publicly. I stand with those who have no one around willing to march with them, with those who see the injustices ravaging their communities but have no recourse. I stand with those who live in states like mine where your votes for progress means very little as you are heavily outnumbered. I stand with those who see the rallies on TV like I did as a kid but feel so distant and invisible.

Long gone are the days of many of my white childhood friends feeling comfortable with me.  As is evident on my Facebook comments after I speak out on injustices or anything race related. But to my family, friends, loved ones and those who I do not know, I will not remain silent until the spotlight is shined on your struggle to breathe freely, we stand with you, and one day we will all breathe freely together.

My First Time: Police Trauma in the Child "Hood"

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I was only 8 years old, full of love for everyone with big dreams about my future when this photo of me holding my baby picture was taken. Little did I know that this would be the last picture ever taken of my innocence. In less than 3 months after this moment my life was forever changed when I was stopped by a police officer while walking home from school. Although I was completely innocent and had never committed a crime, he proceeded to hand cuff me and place me against his car. Then he patted me down and went through my pockets and superman back pack, in search of drugs or weapons. I could feel the fingers of this grown man I had never met running up and down and between my legs. As this was happening I could not help but notice his gun which was eye level, and wondered how many people he had shot with it, and whether I'd be next. I also watched as my white classmates walked by and pointed at me like I was guilty.

After coming up unsuccessful in his search, the policeman took the cuffs off and sent me on my way, as if he was doing me a favor. Although I was happy to have been set free, that night I lay in my bed and cried as I stared at the welts on my wrist left by those cold shackles. The physical welts from the cuffs eventually went away. It was the emotional and physiological welts on my spirit and psyche that scarred me forever. My 8 year old free spirit constantly fought with my 80 year old soul around this idea that no matter how light I walked, how nice I dressed or how much I stayed out of out of trouble, my freedom could be taken from me at any time and that I could be put in hand cuffs and taken to jail away from my home, family and safety or possibly even killed. And "the police" had the power to do this.

Two weeks before my encounter with the policeman, I had been placed in Special Ed at the predominantly white school I attended on the predominantly white side of town in conservative Oklahoma. So I was already scorned as my teachers suggested that I be placed on medication a.k.a. drugs. Now, here I was handcuffed by a cop in front of the school being searched for drugs. As one would imagine, being rendered helpless and vulnerable while my freedom, dignity and innocence were stripped away caused me to develop a deep sense of distrust and anger towards cops. And with reason - because the stops never stopped. It was like the older I got, the more I got pulled over, and the more I got pulled over the more angry I became. 

As we look around at the current racial tensions between the black community and police it is important that we understand that many black males young and old have been traumatized by the policing practices in this country. This is something that very few of my peers would be willing to admit, or they don't even recognize as the  source of their pain. But most will attest that the constant stripping away of their dignity, freedom and smiles of innocence makes them angry. My First Time was traumatizing and a major contributing factor to my anger towards authority  that set my young life on a downward spiral. So as I reflect on the recent events, I believe it is essential for us to honestly deal with this deeply rooted trauma caused by unjustified profiling and stereotyping.  If we're ever going to move towards healing and reconciliation, we need to search for answers so we can understand just how  deeply racial profiling and abuse contribute to and manifest in the generations of boys who are growing into traumatized men.

As the rallies and talks of eradicating abusive police practices that have been allowed to run wild and free here in the west, fills my heart with joy, it also forces me to face my unresolved pain that is deeply rooted in my psyche from being abused by the police. I believe that the movement to show this country that black lives matter is heading in a good direction. I just hope it does not stop with putting pressure on cops to not kill unarmed black men. I also hope that it provides space for those of us whose survived our run-ins with the police, but walked away with our innocence and sense of humanity murdered, a safe place to heal.

Although my life spiraled out of control due to the abuse I suffered at the hands of an insensitive justice system and an insensitive educational system, my life was turned around through the help of God and many mentors. I am now:

A Teacher

A Minister

A Motivational Speaker

An Author

An Ivy League Graduate with a Master’s Degree in Education

And a Doctoral Student at Columbia University who sits on panels with influential leaders

and like many other black males walking around I am a survivor who is “functionally traumatized” by police abuse.