Spacious Solidarity Blog: Day 75

Photo by AP photographer Julio Cortez

Trigger warning: details of violence against Black youth and police misconduct

I wake up with my heart full to the brim with memories from my time living and working in San Francisco.

The first is the death of Ray Ray.

Ray Ray was tall, loud, handsome, chaotic, funny, smart, charming, and oozing with talent. He played football and basketball and sang and drummed and danced with the popular youth group Loco Bloco.

He was a senior. He’d made honor roll and had been offered a football scholarship to Humboldt State. He was about to be crowned prom king.

Everyone loved him. He’d been coming around the community centre for as long as I’d been working there and probably long before then. I found out about his death on a Sunday morning in early May 2004.

My wife and I had gone out for brunch and there was a newspaper left in the booth when we went to sit down. There on the front page was Ray Ray’s smiling face. At first I thought he’d made the paper based on one of his many accomplishments. Then I saw the headline and my heart dropped.

He’d been shot and killed only blocks from his house around mid-night on Friday.

The following week I went to his house to meet with his family and ask them what support they needed from the community centre.

His mother told me that the police had called. They needed someone to come down to the station to pick up Ray Ray’s belongings. She needed a ride and asked me if I would take her there and accompany her into the station.

I was relieved that there was something immediate and practical that I could do so we both climbed into my old beat up Volkswagen Cabriolet and headed downtown.

When we got to the station the police greeted Ray Ray’s mother with an indifference that made my blood run cold. They put us in a room and there we waited. And waited. And waited.

Finally, an officer entered the room. Instead of an apology or expression of condolence or even a simple smile he looked at her, then me, then back at her with a sternness that put me into high alert.

Then he started questioning her. Actually, it was more like an interrogation.

What had Ray Ray been doing on that corner at that time of night? Who had he been with? Why did he have $200 dollars in his pocket?

The tone was accusatory, implying that Ray Ray must have been up to no good.

She kept simply saying she didn’t know, didn’t know. Could she please have his things so we could go?

Finally I found the courage to say something. I told the officer that his behavior towards Ray Ray’s mother was completely unacceptable. I told him that she was a grieving mother who had just lost her son to a senseless act of violence. I told him that we were leaving. And I told him that his energy was better spent trying to find the people who did this.

He looked visibly shocked. I don’t think he’d expected it. Ray Ray’s mother just sat there staring at the floor.

And that was it. We both stood up and left the station.

That day changed me. We were all grieving Ray Ray. A whole school, a whole community. He was referred to by many as the “cream of the crop.” If it could happen to him it could happen to anyone. And this is how the cops were treating his mother. The victim’s mother.

I knew that the kids at the community centre didn’t trust the police. And I’d heard their stories. And it’s not that I didn’t believe them.

But in witnessing the way Ray Ray’s mother was treated that day what I learned was that the police don’t give a shit about the Black community. It’s not just about beef between kids and cops, it’s an entire system designed to terrrorize an entire community.

The other thing I learned that day was that Ray Ray’s mom was not safe in that police station. And her request for me to go down there with her wasn’t just about her needing a ride. She probably took one look at me and thought she stood a much better chance of being treated half-decently with me by her side.

To this day Ray Ray’s killer has never been found.

The second memory is from a few years later. I’d stopped working directly with young people and had moved into diversity and inclusion work in higher education. My boss had invited me to join her for a conference on how to create culturally responsive curricula for students of color.

It was a small gathering over three days and I was the only non-Black participant out of about forty. I immediately felt out of place and even asked my boss if she was sure it was ok for me to be there. She insisted it was fine.

The meeting started with an opening ritual. We were all stood in a circle and a shaman was working her way around the circle shaking a rattle. When she got to me she stopped and then started shaking the rattle furiously and moving it all around my body. It seemed to go on for a really, really long time.

Later I asked her what it was all about. She said that I was carrying the weight of my ancestors with me and that in order to do the work I was being called to do, I needed to put down the baggage of past generations.

Although I felt humiliated by the experience I was also deeply grateful to her for being so honest with me. It was the beginning of a lifelong journey of enquiring into what I karmically carry forward into this life from both my genetic and spiritual ancestors. Work that continues to this day.

I don’t pretend to have it all figured out but I’m willing. And that is what is with me this morning. I’m feeling into the parts of me that are willing to do the work of dismantling the horror story of white supremacy wreaking havoc in this world, starting with my own heart and mind.

My day unfolds like any other Friday since the beginning of the lockdown. Zoom calls and three meals and writing and walking to the park and back and family cocktail hour. And through it all I carry the stories of America on fire.

America burning its way through lockdown during a global pandemic because enough is enough and we can’t take it anymore and Black lives matter.