“I can’t BREATHE! I CAN’T BREATHE!! I….can’t…breathe….” I am told these were some of the last words George Floyd managed to utter before he was murdered on May 25, 2020 by a smug, sadistic, and racist police officer who knelt on his neck for over 8 minutes. Eight minutes and 46 seconds to be exact. I say I am told because I have not watched the video. I cannot watch the video. I will not watch the video. The video of Mr. Floyd being murdered in broad daylight, on a busy street, for the alleged crime of trying to pass a counterfeit $20 bill. For allegedly trying to use a fake bill he was denied the presumption of innocence until proven guilty, his due process, his day in court, and sadly, his life. He was executed for all to see, while the criminal with a badge (I will not call him an officer anymore) knelt on his neck, hands in his pockets, his face as blank as if he were doing something as mundane as waiting in line at the bank or waiting for a bus. That is, except, for his eyes. His eyes looked like he dared someone to say something, to intervene. He looked…unbothered. Like he was not in the process of doing something so heinous, so despicable, so abominable as murdering a human being.
As George Floyd’s name joins the ranks of African American people murdered by police far too easily, far too often, and far too repercussion-free, my heart aches for his family, his friends, and ultimately us as a people. I heard he called out for his mother, his deceased mother, as he was losing consciousness. As the mother of a black son, hell, as a HUMAN BEING, I cannot bear to think about this for very long. What must have been going through his mind in his last terrifying moments is simply too much for me to process. As a mother, the act of comforting my son is so innate, so natural that it is like breathing, requiring no thought. To know that Mr. Floyd was calling out for his mother breaks my heart. One obvious way of interpreting his calling her name is that he knew he would soon be joining her in death. But I also wonder was he trying in some way to appeal to the heartless bastard who was slowly, deliberating, evilly snuffing his life out. Was he saying “I am someone’s son, I am loved by someone, my life matters to someone”? Or was it that in those final moments Mr. Floyd was trying to console himself, trying to ease his distress with that comforting word that we utter in infancy, as early as 5-6 months of life? As the mother of a 16-year-old African American prince, I am deeply affected by each and every story of another senseless murder by the police. They all hurt, but the one who struck the closest to home was Tamir Rice, the 12-year-old child who was murdered in a park within mere seconds of the police arriving on the scene and finding him with a toy gun. He was only about a year older than my baby was at the time, and when I saw Tamir’s photo I even saw a little bit of a resemblance between the two. It brought tears to my eyes simply to look at his innocent, beautiful, brown babyface. When the video of Mr. Floyd’s murder began to circulate I asked my son had he watched it and thankfully he said no. I told him that was good and instructed him to not watch it. I asked him what did he think about the situation and he softly said “wow; it happened again”. As we talked about it more, he became tearful. When he was younger, my son hated for me to see him cry (“It’s my allergies, Mom”) but in this raw moment, he didn’t even attempt to hide his tears. I of course tried to console him, and I couldn’t help but imagine what Mr. Floyd might have sounded like as he called out for his own mother. The mixture of anger, disgust, fatigue, sadness, grief, and dread I was feeling is indescribable.
So because of Tamir and countless others, in addition to the birds and the bees, I of course have given my son “The Talk”, the basics of being Black in America, should God forbid, he ever gets stopped by the police. He has his driver’s permit and will be driving by himself soon, so we have discussed how to keep his hands at 10:00 and 2:00 on the steering wheel, how to not make any sudden moves, how to keep his hands visible at all times, how to always say “yes sir” and “no sir”. Basically how to increase his chances of making it home alive. I got an unexpected reminder of this fact of black life when I was looking for a 16th birthday card for him last December. I came across one that showed a teenaged male driver being pulled over by a police officer. In typical greeting card fashion, it had some quirky punchline, but to me, it went over like a lead balloon. The teen depicted was white, and the officer was white as well. Since I was looking for a card for my black son, I failed to see any humor in a scenario where he gets pulled over by the police. That is not a laughing matter. It is not a joke. This is what it means to be a black mother of a black son in America.
I like to think that I do not live in fear. I am definitely observant of my surroundings and can be somewhat skeptical of people’s motives (I am from New York after all), but my general approach to life has been that I believe (or at least I try to) someone until they give me a reason otherwise. Also, when someone shows you who they are, believe them. But it is hard to not be fearful when I send my son out into the world. Will those he comes in contact with see him for the loving, sweet, funny, kind, non-judgmental, intelligent, quirky, and overall good person that he is? Or will they just see a threat in the form of his still-growing brown body, topped with a crown of beautiful, undeniably African, kinky hair? How can I best prepare him to keep him safe? How do I equip him with the tools to survive this unforgiving world, that often does not afford young black males the grace to make youthful, foolish mistakes that all boys tend to make, except that our children are more likely to pay a much steeper price, with either their freedom or their lives? Praying definitely helps, but I do not dare think that my prayers are any more special, any more direct to God’s ear (although I do believe my mother has His private line), than those of the too-many-to-count mothers who also prayed for their precious offspring. I remember wondering, when he was just in kindergarten, a cute little snaggle-toothed munchkin with a squeaky voice, when will society, including the white female teachers who taught him, stop seeing him as an adorable tyke and start to see him as a threat? As he approaches a height of at least six feet, will he have to perfect the craft of making himself seem small and unthreatening as he approaches white women walking down the street or a building hallway as others before him have had to do because all they see is a predator and not a future video game designer?
Do not get me wrong: being black is a wonderful thing, and I am fiercely proud of my ancestry and the legacy we all pass on to my son. I’m sure I am no different in that respect from any other mother, whether she be Native American, Latina, Asian, or white. But unlike those mothers, as African Americans, we are faced with almost constant, daily reminders that our lives, no matter how affluent we may be, are just…different, and not valued as much. Even our very health is in danger, our chance of dying from “natural” causes is higher, from infancy through adulthood, and if we are fortunate to reach senior citizen status, we are more likely to have chronic diseases and poor health. COVID-19, the latest assault on the world and life as we know it, the new kid on the inequality block, is a quick study and treats us differently as well: despite representing only about 12.5% of the nation’s population, blacks have at least 25% of the deaths, and in some states, the numbers are even higher.
As protests continue and corporate giants see the errors of their ways and acknowledge that racism must be addressed, I am hopeful that a change is truly gonna come, and that George Floyd’s death will not be in vain. To see protestors of all races come together, here and around the world, is a welcomed and long-overdue sight. I pray that we ride this wave to the shores of social justice, tolerance, and acceptance, and institute significant, actionable, measurable, realistic, time-sensitive (as in right-damn-now), and permanent changes, changes that make sure that no other mother, father, son, daughter, husband, wife, sister, brother, grandparent, aunt, uncle, or cousin loses a loved one to a violent, racist police officer. Changes that ensure traffic stops (legitimate ones and not the result of racial profiling) don’t end in false arrests, bodily injury, or deaths. Changes that ensure that those who are sworn to serve and protect do just that, that they treat all citizens equally, and that all of our sons and daughters make it home alive.
#ican’tbreathe #blacklivesmatter #blackboyjoy #morethanjusta”fewbadapples” #fromcoptoconvict #institutionalizedracismkills#votelikeyourlifedependsonitbecauseitdoes #blacksonsanddaughtersmatter#blackvotesmatter #makeithomealive #mitchell’smom
I am Dr. Monique May, Board-certified Family Physician and Founder of Physician in the Kitchen™. Through my videos and best-selling book, MealMasters: Your Simple Guide to Modern Day Meal Planning, I help busy households enjoy healthy eating without impacting their hectic schedules.
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