The dead become a statistic that we debate regarding who has the right idea about what they did and did not deserve, and in so doing we convince ourselves that we have been granted the rights as gatekeepers who hold the key to determining whether or not someone was worthy enough to finish living out their story.
Our media obsession with the taking of life (whether fictional or under the guise of “news”) literally defines our culture and era. And nothing captures our attention, passion, clicks, and eyeballs more than the portrayals of Black deaths at the hands of white vigilantes . . .
So a moment where someone is able to condemn murder and distinguish a Glock from a Taser might be retweeted or shared thousands of times, but it is not confession, repentance, and rebuke of the racist, misogynistic, homophobic, and nationalist ideas that he has preached and platformed for the last 60 years.
With each tearful testimony, I think of what happened on that street in Minneapolis, as regular people watched heartless authorities while a man died unjustly. And I remember what happened on a street in Jerusalem two millennia ago.
The killing of black men by police is a relentless beating against the souls and the spirits of people who believe in justice and who operate in hope. But with each assault, those same spirits become more and more wounded.
One summer during college, a friend of mine hitchhiked his way to visit Wendell Berry at his homestead in Henry County, Kentucky. Inspired by Berry’s writing, my friend had decided it was finally time to meet t...
Beyond participating in daily protests, and advocating for local and state legislation, we are working to birth a grassroots movement for a Federal Truth and Conciliation Commission.