A guilty verdict, uncontrollable tears and unfinsihed business

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“The Black press was never intended to be objective because it didn’t see the – the white press being objective. It often took a position. It had an attitude. This was a press of advocacy. There was news, but the news had an admitted and a deliberate slant.” - Phyl Garland 

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I couldn’t figure out why I was crying. 

 

Was it because I expected a not guilty verdict? Was it because of the joy Black preachers tell me the world can’t take away? Was it due to a sense of accomplishment after months of waiting, hoping and praying for the jury to validate the value of a Black man’s life? 

 

Maybe it was because of what I feared prior to the verdict – massive global unrest with riots like never before. Worse than Watts, Detroit, Ferguson and other places set aflame after juries failed to comprehend the urgency of naming a white man’s guilt. 

 

The verdict didn’t change anything. George Floyd is still dead. The family will continue to grieve his senseless death. Sending Derek Chauvin to prison doesn’t undo the pain related to the deaths of Black men and women, or the innocent verdicts of white people protected by white privilege. 

 

The image of burning crosses and Black people dangling from trees remains.  The fear of being stopped by police still causes me to look in my rearview mirror. My heartbeat increases at the sight of law enforcement, and I worry when my son doesn’t call after a long trip.  

  

I continue to inhale fear of what could happen. 

 

I don’t know why I cried. I couldn’t stop. 

 

Maybe it’s because of what I didn’t have to do. I didn’t have to fight the urge to break something. To burn something. I didn’t have to march, again, because it’s the only thing left to do. After crying, I counted the times – 10, 20, 30 – before crying some more. Too many times to remember. Too many names to plead my point – Black Lives Matter. 

 

I stopped crying to watch television and read comments on social media. I screamed, thank you Jesus. The tears soaked my soul like a baptism. It felt like renewal, but the change didn’t last long.  

 

Daunte Wright.  

 

A reminder that this is not a victory. This is not a celebration. It’s a pause from the pain. It’s a temporary escape from the normal activity of Black folks stuck in the misery of not guilty verdicts.  

 

I needed hugs from Black people. I desired gazing on the play of Black children. I wished for the shout of Black women claiming much needed release. I imagined the sound of a Hammond B-3 organ mingled with tambourines. The moment reminded me of the funeral of a faithful servant. 

 

I cried some more. This time because I felt the angels taking George Floyd home. I felt the vigor of the mighty clouds of witnesses. This is George’s moment. Many felt it. An indescribable emotion. An unnamed thought connecting us to each other. Maybe the ancestors are present helping us feel the agony of the years. The countless, unnamed others who witnessed, with us, a scrap of justice to remind us of what remains.  

 

Maybe the tears are for the myriad of others who will never receive justice. Maybe my tears are in preparation for what is coming – more unnecessary death followed by white people found not guilty. After trembling in my tears, there's the aftermath. The silence. The deep pondering. The asking of questions. 

 

I sit with myself in hope of freedom. There is a prayer. 

 

God, help me not feel this again. Make it all go away.