Unseen

by Reggie Yates

  Outside the Jordan years, there wasn’t much pulling my tiny attention span back towards Chicago. Oprah Winfrey emerged as juggernaut of media but didn’t feel connected to the city in the way those five men in red did. A few years passed and staying up late to watch a live basketball game happening on the other side of the Atlantic no longer spoke to my hunger for connection in the same way.

  I was now in my mid-teens and every thinking moment away from scripts and girls I didn’t have the balls to speak to was dedicated to hip-hop. The Source magazine became my bible and my favourite MC was a man who not only had one of the most distinctive raspy tones, but through his words I rediscovered Chicago. In the year 2000, Like Water for Chocolate was released. This was the fourth studio album from the rapper and Chicago native Common.

  Orchestrated by one of the greatest producers of all time, J Dilla, the album tackled race, love and poverty – themes I’d wrestled with for the entirety of my teens. I explored his entire back catalogue, and with lyrics like ‘I’m comin’ from the South Side, where roughnecks reign; If you can’t stand it, don’t go outside’, his Chicago was a world apart from the sneakers and slam-dunks I knew. It was angst peppered with the realities of a life on the fringes of society.

  Drugs and gangs ran the South Side, and Common’s music became a vivid window into the lives of those who’d never make it to the stands to cheer on The Bulls. By 2004, Common had joined forces with fellow Chicago rapper Kanye West’s G.O.O.D. music label. Kanye went on to become … Well, Kanye, a man whose influence has gone global.

  Kanye Omari West would go on to produce the entirety of Common’s 2005 album Be and the two musicians would continue to collaborate for years. With their hometown a regular theme in their collaborative efforts, it wasn’t until Kanye shone a light on a young rapper from the Windy City that my understanding of Chicago would change yet again.

  On 2011’s Watch the Throne, Kanye rapped ‘I feel the pain in my city wherever I go, 314 soldiers died in Iraq, 509 died in Chicago.’ This track, ‘Murder to Excellence’, didn’t pull any punches about what was happening on the city’s South Side. I was now in my late twenties and stories of loss of life suddenly held so much more weight. This wasn’t just music any more, the lyrics spoke to a bloody epidemic claiming young black men. Kanye doubled down: ‘The old pastor closed the cold casket and said the church ain’t got enough room for all the tombs.’

  A year later, a teenager by the name of Chief Keef saw his fame skyrocket when Kanye remixed his biggest hit ‘I Don’t Like’. The power of West’s influence threw the then 16-year-old (already huge online) into the speakers of out of touch hip-hop fans in their late twenties and early thirties … like me. Under house arrest for UUW, or Unlawful Use of a Weapon, Keef wrote and recorded his verse for the remix in his grandmother’s lounge. Rapping, ‘I got tats up on my arm ’cause this shit is life’, Keef openly referenced his gang affiliation.

  I was totally side-swiped by the teenager and fell into a wormhole of videos and think pieces online. The kid already had a loyal localised following, but going viral meant mainstream and global interest. Video after video of Keef and his shirtless teenage friends mugging at the camera clocked up millions of views online. They waved gang signs, tattoos and guns and their audience seemed to eat it up. To the Sonics of local teenage producer Young Chop, they had their own sound in Drill Music, and a growing audience declaring them as rap’s newest superstars.

  Once again, music would be the catalyst to a new level of understanding Chicago. These kids were rapping about a gang-infested, segregated city with the highest murder rate in the country. The South Side had such an unrelenting body count that it earned itself the unwanted nickname Chiraq. It was Chicago’s own Middle East. While Keef’s mix tapes and YouTube fame netted him a record deal with Interscope records worth $6 million, there were thousands of other kids just like him who didn’t make music but were just as young, living just as dangerous a life.

  What were the chances of escaping such an environment, and surviving the double whammy of police brutality and black-on-black crime?

  It was 2016 and I’d experienced what I thought could be every kind of on-camera challenge possible. My twenty-fifth year on screen was my thirty-third year on the planet and my desire to grow on a personal level had been fast-tracked after I’d invested in more regular therapy. The transparency I was willing to deliver would only help the film and my relationship with an entirely new team.

  A few months earlier, I’d found myself in one of my favourite restaurants on Soho’s Dean Street sat opposite Toby Trackman. He is a director and the production company had suggested I meet him for the yet to be commissioned Chicago film. Quickly bonding over his musical Bristol roots we chewed each other’s ears off about club nights and B-sides spiralling into the depths of geekdom.

  But just how hard would I be pushed? He made a point of wanting to challenge me in some of my moments of reflection. The best work I’d delivered outside of conversation with contributors had continually come from discourse with my director. Through so much shared experience, my usual collaborator Sam and I found a short hand and fluidity. But what would the new outlook of Toby’s bring to the conversation and more importantly, what would he expect from me?

  I knew Chicago had recently seen an increase in gun violence and I was heading right into the thick of it. To read about lives being lost was eternally different to being surrounded by it. I honestly didn’t know how I’d manage, but knew whatever reaction might find its way to the surface I was ready to examine it on camera.

  Those of us who have been kissed by the sun, there appears to be a target on our backs

  Once again, I’d arrived in the US knowing I’d be making a film about the black experience. Unlike Ferguson, however, there wasn’t currently a media spotlight shining on Chicago and my relationship with this city was a constantly changing love affair that had lasted years.

  America was at a crossroads; what had for so long been the plight of some was now fighting for the attention of many. The country was gripped by allegations of police brutality and an increase in gun crime was tearing the country apart. But I started my journey knowing that, in this city, police violence was only part of the story.

  The national outrage towards police shootings was the big story, but in Chicago, gun violence was also out of control. As the city struggled to cope with the carnage, who was responsible?

  It was our first day filming and our drive wasn’t long but gave us enough time to establish a healthy rhythm of name-calling and playing music loudly. Toby made the mistake of mentioning that his friends had sometimes likened him to Bart Simpson’s best mate, Milhouse. Well, I could see their point: he had the glasses, the haircut and, now and then, the geek-like demeanour. It seemed like it would almost be rude not to call him that.

  We arrived and Millhouse, sorry, I mean Toby, had me dive right in the deep end, starting the shoot with a small demonstration outside a local police station. Three young black men stood silently holding stop signs in front of the police building. All three signs were tagged with words below the bold STOP in white. I found myself fixed on the youngest of the three, whose sign read ‘STOP KILLING US’.

  As well as the silent stop sign protest, a mass of sullen faces stood before news cameras. The demonstrators were holding a banner filled with the faces of African-American victims of police violence. ‘The police are killing our women and children,’ said a man in an immaculate suit. He had the air of a community leader elected to speak for the families, but his linen and matching fedora contradicted his plea, as he looked less like a community leader and more like a 1950s Harlem dandy. He continued, ‘Those of us who have been kissed by the sun, there appears to be a target on our backs.’

  Outrage at black deaths at the hands of white cops was rising across the country and Chicago was no different. Emotions were at boiling point. In 2015, police in America killed 306 African-Americans, eight in Chicago alone. The well-dress
ed spokesperson was almost pleading with cameras begging for change. His tone was a conscious and deliberate whine, not too unlike a preacher begging for his followers’ agreement: ‘The Chicago police do not get to be judge, jury and executioner of our children.’

  Sadly, his content and delivery were so familiar that they felt like clichés. I’d heard men speak on behalf of black communities in America this way my entire life. It felt reminiscent of some of the loudest voices from a bygone era where change was pleaded for. When a young guy in a baseball cap and hoodie got on the mic, his measured, no-nonsense style didn’t ask for, but demanded change.

  One of the two men had lived through the civil rights era; the other was a millennial with a totally different level of expectation from the country he called home. Speaking to the cameras with pure confidence and clarity, he took aim not just at police brutality, but also at gang violence. He didn’t shy away from problems in his community, but insisted on accountability from the people supposedly protecting them.

  I attended the monthly police review board, a forum giving locals the chance to air their grievances. With frustrations already articulated to the waiting media, I was expecting things to only get louder once we’d headed inside. The board took place in a conference hall-like space and was packed with concerned locals. A media line-up stood at the back of the room, waiting to cover what would unfold. Their presence was more than justified as the tension in the room was palpable.

  Those who’d arrived were not only impassioned but clearly connected to the issues. Many were wearing funeral-style tribute T-shirts displaying the names and faces of lost loved ones. This certainly wasn’t a room of weekend warriors, they’d been personally affected and, by the looks of things, directly galvanised to do something.

  One after another, bereaved mothers stepped up to the mic berating the police. ‘And you all don’t give no fucks because he wasn’t one of your kids,’ rang out of the speakers as the tearful parent let loose on those she saw as responsible. I could hardly watch as the board of police and city officials silently sat and listened with no apparent show of emotion. A few flashed signs of empathy, but most sat blank-faced and could easily have been wondering what to have for their dinner that night.

  The more scathing the comments made by grieving parents, the louder the reception from the audience became. Claps and cheers filled the room every time furious parents dismantled the system and its mute representatives. It must have been cathartic for them, but would it really change anything?

  As the board wound down, I got talking to a twenty-two-year-old father of one whose son was fast asleep on his shoulder. Ja’mal Green was a local man and activist who’d attended hoping to hear or see something different, but was about to leave unimpressed. He smiled, admitting the sessions always get heated but ‘No solutions ever come out of it, that’s the problem.’ Ja’mal continued, ‘When you see our neighbourhoods looking like third-world countries with no resources, no opportunities and no jobs, its regular.’ For someone so young, I was surprised by his lack of optimism:

  ‘You live in it so long there is no hope.’

  I got talking to Antoine Hudson, a polite thirteen-year-old who was there with his mother Tambrasha. Antoine’s brother Pierre had been shot dead by police at just sixteen years of age. As Tambrasha spoke passionately, the room erupted into applause. Antoine watched proudly with an air of maturity I’d never before seen in one so young.

  ‘Black young males are dying left and right every day in Chicago,’ he told me. He was matter of fact and didn’t flinch at what was more than a statement; he was describing his own situation. Antoine wore a look of acceptance, seeing the environment he’d grown up in as broken but constant. He knew no different and as a result had decided that crying wouldn’t help. Holding everything in, he’d chosen to put his feelings aside in an effort to support his mother who he described as not being as strong. His tone was adult but his baby face made the whole conversation surreal as I kept forgetting I was talking with a child.

  Tambrasha was wearing a t-shirt bearing the name and face of her beloved late son, Pierre. She’d made some kind of peace with losing one child but had become increasingly protective of Antoine, insisting he wasn’t safe. ‘I pray for him every day.’

  Her eyes glassed with tears as she explained the forces she’d battle against were gang related. Until the incident, what ultimately took her son was the least of her concerns. ‘I always prayed about the gangs and the violence, but now it’s sad that I have to cover my kids and pray for them against police shootings.’ Antoine comforted his mother as she began to cry again. He was being strong for her but who was being strong for him?

  ‘What do we want? Justice! When do we want it? Now!’ rang out. The young, straight-talking activist I’d watched speak to the cameras led the crowd out, chanting in unison. Grieving mothers hugged each other as the review board shook off the weight of the last hour of being shouted at. It was strange watching the community desperate to be heard leave through one door, while those with all the power to change things quietly exited through another. Those with the power to help and those in need may have been in the same room, but they felt worlds apart.

  I’d spent years learning about the city through the verses of some of my favourite rap records; now I was finally here but I hadn’t emotionally prepared myself at all. During the review board I looked around the room to see people that looked just like my family members tearfully recounting the most horrific of stories. I couldn’t help but imagine the faces of my loved ones at the podium, or worse yet on a T-shirt. The unmistakable pain and levels of violence I’d just heard about made everything I’d read and heard in the music aggressively immediate and suddenly very real.

  So-called black on black crime; we call it state-sponsored crime

  African-Americans make up one-third of the city’s residents, yet in 2016 Chicago police killed nine people and all but one were black. The drive from where I was staying to where the majority of filming would happen gave a visual to the disparity in the city. North of the river and surrounded by a bustling city centre, the financial district led to the tourist hubs and hotels I returned to every night. South and west of the city were predominantly black and had the highest levels poverty.

  One such area was Gresham, where in 2013 Pastor Catherine Brown was aggressively arrested in front of her children. Ironically, Brown was a volunteer working with the police to help improve interactions with the black community. Her children, aged eight and one, screamed as a police cruiser deliberately crashed into their car. Threatened at gunpoint, Brown was then pulled from the driver’s seat, dragged across the bonnet of the car, tearing her skirt off, and then beaten in her underwear. Laughing, the officers silenced her screaming kids by spraying them with pepper spray.

  Pastor Brown talked me through the incident, as she’d obtained police dashboard video showing the entirety of the ordeal. It was a sickening watch and an experience which has left her eight-year-old daughter wanting out of Chicago, and with a newfound hatred of the police.

  Pastor Brown referred to her role as a police liaison and community volunteer in the past tense. Her days of trying to help the black community and local police get along were over. Following the incident, Catherine was prosecuted on charges including aggravated battery, assault and two counts of attempted murder. She was eventually found guilty of reckless conduct, a misdemeanour for driving in reverse, while all other charges were dropped.

  She still works with the neighbourhood, but Catherine had taken a step back, minimising her interactions with the law while doubling down on her relationship with local community leaders. She regularly hosted a group of elders who’d discuss their corners of Gresham and what could be done. I was invited to join the round table and felt instantly welcome the moment I arrived.

  Catherine Brown’s house was a real family home and she was clearly a pillar of the community. Family pictures filled the walls, the stove was always on the go, and the
fridge held enough food to feed the whole of St Louis. She was a great hostess, but I knew if I ate much of the wholesome food she offered me, I could soon be falling asleep.

  The table was made up of older men all itching to unload their issues with the current state of Chicago. The minute I saw the older brother in a dashiki, I knew we were bound to hear some home truths: ‘So-called black on black crime, we call it state-sponsored crime.’ The belief at the table was that the system had created an environment in which no African-American could truly prosper. They said violence wasn’t just about guns – having their schools, day centres and mental health facilities closed down constituted violence on their communities. I had never heard the word used in that way, but it was impossible to disagree.

  Englewood had long streets filled with beautiful homes; the majority of which were unfortunately in a state of disrepair. Fish and chicken spots sat on most corners filling the sticky air with that oil stench that’s impossible to get out of your clothes. However, I’d been in town for around a week and as the South Side became more familiar, it began to feel much more appealing than north of the water where I was staying. There, the perfect streets and global chains filling every commercial space gave the area a homogenised numbness. There were no defining characteristics to the skyscraper-heavy city centre. I could have been anywhere in the world, but not when I was South Side. The energy on the streets you could feel, the people sat in front of their homes made life in Englewood tangible, immediate and vital.

  I didn’t expect residents on the south and west sides of the city to stop living their lives because of the frightening numbers relating to violence. But I was surprised at just how much I was drawn to the forgotten and separate side of Chicago life just on the other side of the water.

  They don’t go to work and think, today I’m gonna shoot somebody

  Cases of police brutality dominated the front pages of local papers and countless hours of screen time. We put in an official request for an interview to the Chicago police department but they declined to be a part of the documentary. However, Toby and my producer Becky Reid had an idea how to get around that.