White-colored Goggles
Like many Americans, I was watching images of Minneapolis on television this week, and trying to make sense of what I saw there. As images of burning buildings and billowing smoke filled my screen, I shook my head, unable to understand how the death of a Black citizen at the hands of a White police officer should result in the destruction of businesses owned by Black families and the burning of a public library used mainly by Black children. It seems like such senseless violence. How is it that a demonstration against police brutality ends up re-victimizing the very community that was hurt to begin with? I didn’t get it – and if I’m honest, my first thoughts about the people I saw on television were less than kind.
I don’t understand this rage, I thought. And a moment later, I realized I was inching closer to the answers I sought.
I don’t understand this rage. As a White man in my late 40s, nothing in my lived experience could help me access the toxic mix of fury and futility that I was witnessing. I began to think about the other things I don't understand.
I recall seeing video footage taken by Darnella Frazier, who witnessed the arrest and mistreatment of George Floyd, as he lay on the ground, his hands cuffed behind his back, and the knee of Officer Derek Chauvin weighing on his neck. He told the officers that he was unable to breathe. He posed no physical threat to anyone. But Chauvin’s knee remained on Floyd’s neck. He was soon unconscious. Later that night, he died.
When I saw that video, my thoughts were a jumble. How dare he was probably the first coherent one, followed by what could possibly justify this action, what makes him think he can get away with this, and what kind of training do these cops receive?!
These were all thoughts, I figured, that a “woke” White person would have, someone who was attuned to issues of racial justice and a strong ally to communities of color. It wasn’t until two days later, watching the riots on television, that I realized: all my “woke” thoughts were about the police officer. The only person I saw in that video footage was the White policeman. I wasn’t seeing George Floyd at all. He was dying in front of me, and I didn’t see him there.
I had heard before how one of the hallmarks of White privilege was the centering of white people by other white people. But I had always assumed that meant making White people more important, more moral, more intelligent. I thought it meant taking their side. But suddenly, I realized that it could be as simple as who you see, and who you don’t.
I wondered what a Black person watching Darnella Frazier’s video would see. I wonder if their attention would be as fixed upon George Floyd as I was on the man who killed him. I wonder if they would be able to spot the moment that Floyd drifted from consciousness. I wonder what their thoughts might have been. That could be me, perhaps. Or that could be my son, my father, or my brother. I wonder how they would feel. Anger and sadness would both be present, obviously. But a feeling that likely would be absent would be that of surprise. This, after all, is a story that’s older than the founding of our nation. From Crispus Attucks to Emmett Till to Eric Garner, Michael Brown, Tamir Rice, Sandra Bland, Philando Castile, and Breonna Taylor; this is a story that’s always been with us. And so, I imagine that the anger and sadness felt by my Black neighbors rises slowly within them. This is not a new emotion, but one inherited from generation after generation, so old it probably feels like they were born with it.
As my eyes return to the unrest on the Minneapolis streets, I see the people in an entirely different light. I’m less insistent that they behave in a way that seems constructive. I understand the rage a little more, now. I don’t feel it myself, if I’m honest -- but I do understand how an ancient anger mixed with hopelessness and despair might erupt in ways that aren’t logical or strategic. I still don’t like watching a Black neighborhood burn. But I get it.
And I begin to think about riots. As a gay man, I look back on the Stonewall Riots, which took place in New York City the summer before I was born, as a turning point in my own community’s history of civil rights. In the 1960s, the police routinely raided gay bars in Greenwich Village and made their arrests. Names would be printed in the paper the next day, and lives would be ruined. On June 28, 1969, the inhabitants of the Stonewall Inn resisted. They would not go peaceably. What followed were six days of demonstrations that included burning and looting. Ever since coming out, I’ve learned to respect those rioters as heroes, the foremothers and forefathers of the rights I enjoy today as an out gay man. It is believed by almost everyone I know that those riots made a difference.
On the morning of Friday, May 29, Minnesota’s governor Tim Walz and District Attorney Keith Ellison led a press briefing in which they implored the citizens of Minneapolis to cease the violent activity that was destroying their own community. Three hours later, Officer Derek Chauvin was arrested.
When the history of 2020 is written, it won’t be a happy story. Stories about George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, and Ahmaud Arbery will be sandwiched in between murder hornets, Australian wildfires, and of course the global COVID-19 pandemic. We can’t yet know how the story will be handed down, but each of us can be mindful of the stories we take in today. And while we can never truly see the world through another’s eyes, I believe the trying is worth it.