Dying While Dying: COVID-19 & Police Brutality in Black America
The COVID-19 pandemic has caused an unprecedented paralysis in the world both economically and emotionally. Millions are without jobs, adequate health care, and engaged leadership. African Americans are the most impacted by the disease. As of June, there have been over 21,000 COVID-19 related deaths in the Black Community nationwide. Pre-existing health conditions and challenging living situations act as barriers preventing proper social distancing and protection/recovery. Though coronavirus is an unexpected nemesis for Blackness to combat, an old foe is still ever-present.
Currently, foreign and domestic protests and riots have erupted in response to the multiple deaths of unarmed Black men and women at the hands of law enforcement. The murder of George Floyd in Minneapolis, Minnesota, on Memorial Day has captured the world's attention. In an 8 minute and 46-second clip, America has yet another lifelong lasting image of an unarmed African American male screaming, "I Can't Breathe" - an unholy sequel to the video of Eric Garner uttering those exact words in 2014 as his life was brutally driven from his body.
If Floyd's death was the explosion on a global scale, then Breonna Taylor's death was undoubtedly the fuse. Back in March, the 26-year-old Louisville EMT worker was fatally shot eight times when the Louisville Metro Police Department entered her home serving a no-knock warrant.
Overwhelming feelings of helplessness, anger and fear due to coronavirus, coupled with the recent murders at the hands of the authorities, have exacerbated our current temperaments. We are expected to adhere to the pleas of law officials and politicians to shelter in place and social distance when the particular cases of Floyd and Taylor indicate the antithesis of these requests when put into practice by the police.
While dealing with a faceless adversary in COVID-19, African Americans remain engaged in an ongoing battle with a known opposition. Black people have become savants at juggling multiple issues of our survival. But balancing civil unrest and possible contagion simultaneously, and at this magnitude, is an ask that is too great - despite our resiliency.
At the risk of further spreading coronavirus, the streets are running wild with rebellion. However, the sickness of racism, of injustice, is a pandemic that has been ever-present since this country's inception. We looked for 2020 to be the year of Exodus from all of the strife of the previous decade(s). But, it seems that we might have to endure a few more plagues before we see the Promised Land.
Dwayne "Deascent" Gittens is a Hip Hop artist, On-Air Personality, & Content Creator from The Bronx. Follow him on Instagram & Twitter @Deascent.
Oh yeah....I AM Black
I was 24 when Trayvon's young life was taken from him. I didn't grasp the magnitude of the situation when it happened. Not because I didn't have sympathy for a life being lost, but because I didn't understand why so much emphasis was put on race. To me, Zimmerman was just another trigger-happy hick with emotional issues. Plus, I had grown weary of my people automatically dubbing something as racist when the offender wasn't a minority. I wasn't that naive that I believed racism didn't still exist. I also didn't think that it would still be so obvious in 2012. I, too, rocked gently to sleep by the lullaby "Yes, We Can!" As more and more cases like Trayvon dominated the media, I started to run out of excuses as to why these killings weren't an offshoot of racist behavior.
I could understand one or two every few years, but it was almost everyday I was hearing that a brother without any weapon was killed by a cop. I couldn't say that it was specific to one area either. These killings were happening in different parts of the country. Now at 30, I'm more aware that the scales of justice rarely tip in the favor of people who share the same skin color as myself. That coded language used to describe people of color is no longer encrypted. I find this sort of tension in my body whenever I'm in the presence of law enforcement even though I'm not doing anything illegal. I think about my contrasting mind state from the time when Trayvon was killed compared to now, and I ask myself "Why was I so disconnected from my blackness?"
At a certain age, I felt that being thought of as a Black person first and foremost was very limiting. The fact that I was black was obvious, but I did not feel it needed to be my primary identity. In my mind, I felt being connected to my blackness meant that I went around introducing myself like "Hi, I'm Dwayne! I'm Black! A pleasure to meet you!" My family is Black and we lived in a Black neighborhood. I enjoyed "Black" things like Hip-Hop music, soul food, and basketball. I had Black teachers all the way up until high school. In elementary school, they made us read poems by Langston Hughes and books by Lorraine Hansberry. During Black History Month, the students put on performances for the whole school. My "Black Card" had been validated a long time ago in mine eyes.
Fast Forward to Cardinal Spellman High School and suddenly I'm exposed to different cultures on a broader level. I'd been around black people my whole life, so I became fascinated with the idea of interacting with students from other ethnicities. I developed friendships and relationships with people from other races that I've maintained to this day. I still managed to fit in with the black students to an extent because I was the designated rapper, but not as much as I would've liked. Our common interests weren't in abundance. They were into the latest Jordans, 106 & Park, and going to the movies at Bay Plaza. I was into The Simpsons, Linkin Park, and perfecting the concept of being the Emo kid from the hood. I wasn't a jock, a troublemaker, class clown, or a Straight-A student. I was just Dwayne, an individual, not just another Black kid.
Unbeknown to me, I've experienced racism and racial profiling as an adult on various occasions. I say "unbeknown" because at the time I didn't think of it as such. I've been stopped by a police officer, frisked, and asked if I was on probation or parole. I remember visiting a friend who lived in a predominantly white neighborhood. I was stopped by a patrol car because according to them, one of the residents said there was a man in a hoodie that looked "suspicious" (There goes that word, again). I would visit my white friends and have dinner with their families. They were warm, inviting, and treated me like one of their children. Later, I would discover that they would use racial slurs towards Black people in casual conversation among each other. These slurs weren't directed towards me in particular, but the "bad ones." I was one of the "good ones."
I didn't get what made me so "different" in their eyes. Was it because I had gone to parochial school for a great portion of my upbringing? Was it because I was great at articulating myself? Was it the fact that I could speak Italian? I felt I was privileged being able to be in places that a lot of black people weren't. To me, I felt I had transcended race and I was being judged by the content of my character not the color of my skin. I was Dr. King's dream personified. I had encountered people who loved Black culture, but for some reason didn't love Black people the same way. I went from feeling like a king to a jester.
There will never be a time in this country when race and color won't be a factor. It's a sad reality that we don't want to embrace, but an honest one nonetheless. As a youth, I held firmly to this concept of being an individual first and a skin color second. I was conditioned to think that the darkness of your skin was not a restriction on your ability to succeed. Though that may not have been one hundred percent the case for me, it does not mean that it hasn't the case for others. Trayvon Martin would've turned 23 February third of this year. Racial profiling and devilish acts are reasons why he wasn't here to celebrate it. His story is another reminder of America's continuous misunderstanding and mistreatment of its people of color.
I no longer feel that being recognized as an African American man first is an attempt at marginalization. I cherish my blackness more than I've ever had before. I'm still an individual, but I am an individual who shares the plight of others who look just like me. We are far removed from slavery and Jim Crow in regard to time. However, the lingering effects are hovering over our nation like one big divisive black cloud. My experiences have led me to a sobering revelation. That revelation is that you may forget what you undoubtedly are, but there will be people and situations for better or worse that will remind you.