I Can't Breathe
May 30, 2020
I generally like to keep these blog posts a little lighter.
But the world feels pretty heavy to me today.
I haven't watched the video. I am a visual processor. In loose terms, that means I can easily spot visual patterns and sort information visually. (I know that's way over-simplifying what that means from a brain function perspective, so my apologies to the scientists who may be reading!)
It also means that once I see something, I cannot un-see it.
And if there is something I know I don't need to see, it is a man being murdered. Face down on the ground. Gasping for air. Asking for breath. Pleading for breath. While another man pins him down by neck. Kneeling on his neck. I've read enough about the incident that I can describe the scene without watching the video.
The lawyer in me understands that the criminal justice system in this country is grounded on the belief that a defendant is innocent until proven guilty. Still, it is hard to read that the police officer kept his knee on George Floyd's neck for 8 minutes and 46 seconds; 2 minutes and 53 seconds -- or nearly 3 minutes -- of which occurred after George Floyd became unresponsive. While George Floyd was pleading and struggling to breathe. Still, I am shaking my head.
Just like I couldn't believe reading about the death of Breonna Taylor. Or the death of Ahmaud Arbery.
I like to think that people are inherently good. I like to think that we can see beyond ourselves to a greater good. But the events of this week, and last week, and the week before make me think that I am wrong.
The color of your skin shouldn't subject to death in America. Or anywhere, for that matter.
People are protesting because of injustice here in America. While I don't condone rioting, I understand that the rioting is rooted in frustration. Frustration over centuries of systemic oppression. Frustration over the murders of black people by white people. Frustration over a justice system that seems to condone those murders by oftentimes turning a blind eye to racism.
And I also know that because of my privilege -- the privilege of being born white and middle-class in America -- I don't have the perspective to even begin to understand what others in America face everyday because of the color of their skin.
I can run in the streets without fear of being shot.
I can walk into my home without fear of being fatally shot 8 times. At my home.
I can go to a deli, order a sandwich, try and pay with a counterfeit bill, and go sit in my car. Sure, I'll likely be arrested. But murdered? Not a chance.
And I can sit back comfortably and write about what's weighing on my heart and mind. And I can send money to aid in supporting causes that matter. I could even march in a protest if there was one in my city.
But I also feel hopeless. I don't know how to change the ills of social injustice. Of racial profiling. Of the racism in this country. I don't know how to heal the deep wounds of our society or how to bridge the greatest divide of ideologies that I have ever experienced. There is no middle ground anymore. Just one side or the other.
I'd like to think that, as a country, we've moved past this systemic oppression. The events of the past couple weeks prove that we have not.
"Please, I can't breathe."
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