(Pause.)
I’m just sayin’ that like I’m out here in these streets.
(He looks back out the window at the horizon. The interviewer asks another question. He looks back in their direction but looks down at his arm, examining it quickly as he speaks.)
I got beat. It only happen— It happen—’bout four times, I— Four times, that’s what I remember, four times.
(Another question, and he looks around randomly but not at the interviewer/audience. Perhaps he yawns.)
Runnin’ from ’em, that’s mostly what they—thass all they can beat me for, runnin’ from ’em. The don’t like it when you run from ’em.
It’s a lotta people out here bein’ harassed, gittin’ killt, you fill me like. It ain’t just cuz of no Freddie Gray got killt, people die every day. Police—you feel me, harass people, beat people every day.
(Another question, looking perhaps out the window, perhaps down at his feet, just not at the interviewer/audience.)
The stick—they use a what’s name…Uhm, I forget what kinda stick it is. Sometimes they use their hands.
(Another question. He faces the interviewer/audience dead-on.)
You can’t protect yourself! When it come to the police, you can’t say too much, but run your mouth and once they see you really runnin’ your mouth they try catch you or try do somethin’ to you, an’ ’specially if they ain’t got no reason y’feelme to touch you, they def’nitley wanna touch you, like, they chase you all this ’n’ you ain’t got nuttin’ on you, an they just chasin’ you? Man they they worth ih—gonna make it worth they while, they gonna find, they gonna, not even put nuffin’ on you they gonna beatchu.
Straight like that, it ain’t no “Oh, I’m o’ plant somethin’ on him, they just do they wanna do, at that time, at that moment.
(Now he emphatically “schools” the interviewer/audience, straight on, direct, and gets more and more excited and more and more direct. His appetite for talking is now sparked. He gets very upset and emphatic.)
It don’t— It don’t even matter this, at this point. I don’t— It don’t even matter if they black or white. I never s— I don’t even— It ain’t no black-or-white situation, I ain’t tryin’ to hear that. I done seen plenny o’ police off [officers] do it, an I’m black you feel me, to black people, an’ I done seen plenny o’ whi’ [white] police do it, I done seen ’em do it together, it ain’t no no no racist thing, ih— That’s what I, I don’t see no racist thing come into play.
I think issa hatred thing, like, they hate, you feel me like. If I ca—if you can’t find nuttin’ on me what’s the whole point o’ you lockin’ me up or you beatin’ me up, you feh [feel] me? For no reason, cuz I made you run? Come on now, like, you train to do this like…
’N’ I could be runnin’ for no reason juss for the police d’you feel me. If you mess wit me—why mess wit me y’feel me—’n’ I’m gonna make you mad. Becuz you shouldneev’ be ’arrasin’ me for no reason you feel m— I don’t have no—nuffin’ on me! You feel me—they—jumpin’ outta the car, tryin’— “What? I’m gone! I’m running from you!”
(Leaning forward toward the interviewer/audience.)
I never got locked up nunnaduh time I get beat up, you feel me, cuz they don’t find nuttin’ on me nunnadat, I don’t throw nothin’ you feel me, nunnadat. They don’t even…
(Pause.)
I really don’t know. Thass all it is to it. Hey. Stuff happen erry day on Ballamaw City.
(Looking out the window again.)
[Slide]
JAMAL HARRISON BRYANT
PASTOR AND FOUNDER OF EMPOWERMENT TEMPLE AME CHURCH
HIS ACTUAL SERMON AT FREDDIE GRAY’S FUNERAL
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND, APRIL 27, 2015
“Breaking the Box”
“Breaking the Box”
(The video is actual footage of the funeral. Dignitaries including Jesse Jackson are behind the pulpit. A packed megachurch. Casket, lines of people paying respects. Hymn: “Pass Me Not, O Gentle Savior.” Magnificent choir. Responsive church, babies crying, etc., individual calls building until a point when they join Bryant in the call “No justice! No peace.” Bryant is GQ dapper, probably one of the best-dressed men in America. A brilliant preacher, both in terms of writing and delivery. Pastor Bryant is well-represented online for study of his preaching technique. The entire sermon, as well as many other sermons of his, are also available online for study.)
* * *
The Families United 4 Justice, they drove through the night, from New York, to be here. I want you to know who is with us. I’m thankful for the daughter of Eric Garner, who is here with us. The mother of Amadou Diallo is here with us. The mother of Kimani Gray is here with us. The sister of Shantel Davis is here with us. The mother of Ramarley Graham is here with us. The niece of Alberta Spruill is here with us. For all of them, would you give God a handclap of praise? Thank you so much for coming.
Would you find your way to Luke, chapter 7. Luke, chapter 7. I want to illuminate for your understanding verses 11 through 15. “Soon afterward, Jesus went to a town called Naim, and his disciples and a large crowd went along with him. As he approached the town gate, a dead boy was being carried out. The only son of his mother. And she was a widow. And a large crowd from the town was with her. And when the Lord saw her, His heart went out and He said, ‘Don’t cry.’ Then he went up and touched the coffin. And those carrying it stood still. He said, ‘Young man, I say to you, get up!’ And the dead man sat up. And begin to talk. And Jesus gave him back to his mother.”
[I] wanna preach for a little while tonight—today, using as a subject “Breaking the Box.” Breaking the box.
One of the greatest tragedies in life is to think that you are free, but to still be confined to a box. Living in a box of stereotypes. Other people’s opinion. Sweeping generalizations. And racial profiling. Sociologists have unearthed a newfound phenomenon called quarter-life crisis. And it says that this generation of youth in their mid-twenties begin meandering through the painstaking task of asking themselves, “What am I gonna do with my life? Is there any hope for me? What should I have done differently?”
(Looking out into the congregation, specifically to one person.)
Grandmother, I need you to know that Freddie had to have been in a quarter-midlife crisis. ’Cause at twenty-five years of age, being black in Baltimore, no opportunities to go to Johns Hopkins. No doors open at the University of Maryland. No scholarship to Morgan and no access to Coppin. “In a place where I have minimal opportunities,” Freddie had to have asked, “when I can walk down the harbor and see Exelon, Under Armour—when it is that I can look across the water and see millions of dollars poured into Camden Yards and M&T Stadium.” He had to have been asking himself, “What am I gonna do with my life?” He had to feel almost like he was boxed in.
Now, on April the twelfth at 8:39 in the morning, four officers on bicycles saw your son. And your son, in a subtlety of revolutionary stance, did something that black men were trained to—taught—know not to do. He looked police in the eye.
I want to tell this grieving mother, you are not burying a boy, you are burying a grown man. Who knew that one of the principles of being a man is looking somebody in the eye.
At 8:40, your son began running from the police. He began running. At 8:41, according to the timeline, he stopped. He stopped not because he was out of breath. He stopped not because he was a weakling. He stopped not because asthma had kicked in. He stopped because somewhere within the inner recesses of his own mind, he made up in his mind: “I’m tired of living in a box.” And so he stopped running.
So as we jaywalk in our text, we notice that Jesus and his disciples are coming to an unknown hamlet of a town known Naim. And Jesus is overwhelmed by this crowd, and—and he stops as he’s seeing the funeral p
rocessional. Jesus says to this mother, “Don’t cry. Whatever you do, don’t cry.” It’s a strange prescription to tell a family in pain. “Don’t cry.” When the Bible declares that weeping may endure for a night and joy comes in the morning, He says to the mother, “Don’t cry.” But I came to tell this grandmother. I came to tell the aunt. I came to tell Freddie Sr. I came to tell Freddie’s five sisters, “Don’t cry.” And the reason why I want you not to cry is because Freddie’s death is not in vain.
After this day, we gonna keep on marching. After this day, we gonna keep demanding justice. After this day, we gonna keep exposing a culture of corruption. After this day, we gonna keep monitoring our own neighborhood. Whatever you do, don’t cry!
Amazingly! Jesus does something: he lifts up his hand. And he changes the position of healing. Every other time Jesus has healed, it has always been a lateral move: he would reach his hand out. But when we find ourselves in this narrative for the very first time in sacred scripture, Jesus lifts his hands up. And when he lifts his hands up, he touches the casket.
And I’m praying to God that God will lay his hand on everything that’s been trying to keep black people in a box…I don’t know whether I’m talking about redlining of zip codes or gentrification or whether I’m talking about a prison pipeline or inadequate public schools, but whatever box that has been placed around the life and the future of young black babies in this city, I’m praying: God, put your hand on the box!
He said—watch this—to the young man in the box still, “Get up.”
This is not the time for us as a people to be sitting on the corner drinking malt liquor! This is not the time for us to be playing lottery or to be at the Horseshoe Casino! This is not the time for us to be walking around with our pants hanging down past our behind! This is not the time for us to have no respect for our legacy and for our history! This is not the time for tattoos all over your neck! He said, “I need you to get up.” In spite of the fact that they spend more money on special education than they do on gifted and talented programs—get yourself up! In spite of what they told you [that] you oughtta be and what you are gonna become: get up! You are not Lil Wayne, you are not Lil Boosie. You are in the mantle and the legacy of Thurgood Marshall and Clarence Mitchell Sr. and Parren Mitchell and Kweisi Mfume! Get your black self up and change this city!
I don’t know what Jesus you serve. But the Jesus I serve is not blond and blue-eyed. The Jesus I serve looked just like Freddie Gray. And that Jesus is the Jesus who will lift us up again.
He speaks to him. And He says to this young man, “Get up.” And He never opens the casket. You miss what I just said? He tells the young man, “Get UP.” When he’s in a closed casket! He was sending a message to Black America. Don’t expect nobody to open the door for you! If they don’t open the door, kick that sucker down and get what you need! GIT UP!!!!
The young man got up. When he was supposed to be dead; supposed to be over. And he got up without any prompting, ladies and gentlemen. And he started talking.
I don’t know how you can be black in America and be silent. With everything that we dealing with—with our children being gunned down in the streets!
Freddie—Freddie, just like this boy in Luke chapter 7, he broke outta the box. And again, Luke the gospel writer and physician has let me down. Because when the boy broke outta the box, he forgot to tell me what that boy said. Gettin’ out of the casket! But if you’ll allow me to validate my sanctified imagination: When that black boy got outta the casket, do you wanna know what he said? He said, “No justice!” (Audience: “No peace!”) “No justice!” (Audience: “No peace!”) “No justice!” (Audience: “No peace!”)
Actual documentary footage is shown on the video screen. Excerpts of coverage of the trials of the officers involved in Gray’s death are shown. Then we hear the voice of State’s Attorney for Baltimore, Marilyn Mosby.
“I have heard your calls for ‘No justice, no peace.’ However, your peace is sincerely needed as I work to deliver justice on behalf of Freddie Gray. To the rank and file officers of the Baltimore Police Department, please know that these accusations against these six officers are not an indictment on the entire force. I come from five generations of law enforcement. My father was an officer. My mother was an officer. Several of my aunts and uncles, my recently departed and beloved grandfather—”
The video is cut off as a musician is revealed playing a riff. (All previous productions used an African American male in his forties, a jazz bass player.)
The musician is playing a riff on “Spanish Harlem” by Jerry Leiber and Phil Spector. We hear a recording of a woman, Alicia Keys, speaking lyrics from “The Rose That Grew from Concrete” by Tupac Shakur.
Did you hear about the rose that grew from a crack in the concrete?
Proving nature’s laws wrong, it learned how to walk without having feet
Funny it seems but by keeping its dreams
It learned to breathe fresh air
Long live the rose that grew from concrete
When no one else even cared
No one else even cared
[Slide]
THE ROSE IN CONCRETE
[Slide]
MICHAEL TUBBS
COUNCILMAN, SUBSEQUENTLY MAYOR OF STOCKTON, CALIFORNIA
“Tupac”
“Tupac”
(At the time of the interview, Tubbs was the youngest city councilman Stockton, and possibly California, ever had. Tall, lanky, a boyish smile and face. Research can be done to find clips of him on television shows. He wears a suit, sports shirt, oxfords.
He and the musician give each other high fives. Tubbs speaks very quickly, like a small boat zooming across water. Sometimes minor prepositions or other small words are inaudible. It’s a bit of a verbal feat to keep the monologue moving along quickly. Stanford grad, none of the affectations of most current Ivy League grads. A politician but still fresh. Almost disarmingly open and vulnerable in his manner.)
* * *
So what I would say about Stockton: Stockton’s really ground zero for a lot of issues facing America. My aspirations right now? You’re gonna laugh—they’re really simple. I just want a grocery store in my district? There’s no grocery store. I had no idea. I don’t eat really healthy. My girlfriend, now my wife, is a vegetarian. And she went to Stanford. And she came to live with me [for] like a week. And she was, like, breaking out. She’s like, “Michael, I just want an apple. Where can I get an apple?” And I couldn’t think of where to get her an apple. I said, “I don’t know. Where can I get you an apple from?” It was about twenty minutes away. So that really prompted me: “Okay, let’s do something about that.”
We’re doing some work around boys and men of color alliances, so we can figure out how to improve outcomes for boys and men of color. For a lot of young people in—in Stockton? There’s almost this prevailing sense of nihilism? And I’m not sure it’s peculiar to Stockton? I think in any community where you have segregation along race and class, you have a undercaste of—of young people, who just feel forgotten, neglected, and are just angry and don’t know what to be angry at. It’s—it’s—I think they understand there’s some things structurally wrong. But they haven’t been taught what that is, so oftentimes it—it manifests itself in self-blame. Or—or, “It’s our fault,” or—or “I need to work harder.” When often, when that—part of that’s true, but oftentimes there are real structural forces keeping—keeping some people down, so I think, for young people in Stockton, there’s almost a sense of nihilism. There’s a sense of leveled aspiration. In terms of not being exposed to everything that’s out here. But it’s also this amazing resilience. Whenever I—whenever I talk to young people in Stockton, I always quote the Tupac poem, about the rose that grew from concrete? When he talks about “Long live the rose that grew from concrete / when no one else cares,” and I think that really
, really illustrates the young people in my opinion—Stockton—the—these young people, who are growing in cracks of concrete, not in soil, but in—but in concrete. Where they’re not supposed to grow. And sometimes they come out with a little bit of scars, sometimes they come out with—with a couple petals not—that are not perfectly right. But the fact that they’re growing and trying to thrive in—in their community with so many problems, to me, is inspiring.
* * *
I’m sorry, I always talk in stories; they really illustrate points.
* * *
When I was on the campaign trail, I was reading to [a] group of first graders. And I was reading about Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and I got to the part where he was assassinated, so I tried to go through the page really quickly, ’cause I didn’t want to talk to, like, six-year-olds about death. So I tried to turn quickly, but one boy said, “Wait, Mr. Tubbs! My uncle got shot.” And he said it so matter-of-factly, I thought his uncle lived, so I’m like, “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry, I’m glad he’s still here with us now.” He said, “Oh no, he died.” (Dead stop.) And then another little boy was like, “Mr. Tubbs, my cousin got shot!” And then before—then before I could turn the page, every student in that classroom knew somebody that had been shot or was a victim of a violent death.
These are first graders, six years old. I remember looking at the teacher, and she was tearing up, I—I—she was tearing up, I was tearing up, and I think that really illustrates some of why—why nihilism and trauma and violence is just so routine and so normal that a six-year-old can look you in your eye and say, “My uncle died,” and say it so matter-of-factly. At six years old. What happens at seven, eight, nine, ten?
Notes From the Field Page 3
