It never rains in Indianapolis: notes on the police killing of another young Black

I’m really saddened by a recent selfie video I saw on Facebook of a young man fleeing from Indianapolis police that ended up being the last video he will ever share.  On the surface, it would be easy to stack this episode atop all the other murders of Black men we see all too often.  In these times we are conditioned to reflexively blame an unjust and racist system for constructing a reality where young Black males are targets for violence and public aspersion.

Given the grim history of these episodes, it’s natural to feel under siege and lash out. As a Black man in America, of course I’m dismayed that another young life has been wasted.  But what saddens me more, I believe, is the mental state of young men like this–hundreds of thousands of them.  Far too many of them have accepted, embraced and romantically aspire to a narrow existence of crime, drugs, sex, and deadly, false bravado. This is a recipe for jail, sickness, intractable poverty and death, and the downward spiral hastens as soon as they are in the justice system.

In the video, the young man seemed oblivious as to the quite predictable outcome of his flight from the police.  It wasn’t going to end well under any circumstances.  So rather than avoid jail and a sad institutional life, they wear this crazy-brave face as a badge of courage–a tragic right of passage worthy of a kind of strange death march celebration. But unlike freedom fighters or brave revolutionaries who embrace dying for something of great, solemn import, these young men are willing to rush into death for no more than a shiny trinket or two and a gruesome final post on the internet.  They aspire to be the one in a million who escapes into a celebrity-esque lifestyle.  Get rich or die trying is a familiar refrain and they aren’t taking about a successful career at a law firm or on Wall Street, or at the University, or in public life.  They mean they are willing to be cannon fodder or in a jail cell to look like they are celebrities.  Dim prospects, at best.

When I was growing up in the 60’s and 70’s only 10% of the kids I ran with even knew anyone stuck in the system.  It was embarrassing and unacceptable to the entire village to be known for such behavior.  Now, more than 40% of our young men have been court involved themselves and 85% of them know someone close to them who is.  I recall that even when we came into contact with the gangster element in the village, they themselves would warn us not to get into the “life” and if we did, they would “violate us”–kick our asses.  These guys also forbade other gang members from recruiting “good” kids.  They also served as a militia in the community against threats and invaders.  Athletes, scholars, the elderly, and the little kids all got a pass.  Something changed (and I have a good idea what happened) and everyday heroes in the village fell out of favor while the gangsters became role models for the young men.

Now, in what I describe as a terminal paradox, jail and failure are the accepted norm for these young people, and today, they may know only one in a hundred of their peers who are on a path to success, and those kids must often hide excellence and scholarship from the wannabe outlaws or risk being ridiculed and terrorized.

Rahsaan Roland Kirk’s powerful song Volunteered Slavery could be the theme of our times in Black America. We choose to use our $1.4 trillion in spending power to enrich the very people responsible for our condition. Volunteered Slavery. An alarming percentage of us choose not to vote or engage in politics which guarantees that the people who make and execute the laws of the land don’t need to worry about us. Volunteered Slavery. We choose to accept the substandard education the public schools system provides so many of our kids. Even the best and brightest that graduate from these places are too often unable to compete at the next level. They experience crushing failure and become accepting of a sad life. Volunteered Slavery. And finally, a growing percentage of our young people accept failure as the norm and respond to this reality by lashing out with unhealthy, harmful behavior. Volunteered mortality.

It is also telling that whenever I go to court to advocate on behalf of one of my young soldiers, they always get a break for the simple reason that I can communicate effectively and I carry a certain credibility instantly recognizable as authentic and authoritative to those who administer justice.  I’m always astonished when judges, social workers and attorneys catch me and my charge on the way out of court to say how much they appreciated seeing a quality Black man standing on behalf of young people with honor and strength.  They say they rarely see that in the courtroom–or anywhere.  That’s another sign that the village is on life support because high-character Black men stood boldly for me all the time when I was growing up. I don’t see it as much today.

One story from my youth stands out as an example of this.  We were playing basketball one day on a court that was in gang territory. Gangs were battling each other for turf and it came to a head that day as rival gangs started gathering around the park. Threats and tensions mounted and police zoomed up, ready to administer violence-infused just-us. As a Black person, this is a dangerous moment because police don’t distinguish between “good” kids and “bad” kids–everybody is going down. Suddenly about six Black men of varying ages from the neighborhood strode purposefully toward the scene. We didn’t even know who they were. They spoke to the ‘bangers’, telling them they can’t bring that shit to the community and they told the police that men will handle this and they can be on their way. Ten minutes later we were playing ball again. Courage and honor, love and respect. I felt wrapped safely in the arms of the village. I know this kind of thing still happens in Black communities everywhere, but most times today it feels like no one gives a damn despite all the angry internet posts and clever tee shirts that suggest otherwise.

One of my mentors used to tell me, “I hear your mouth saying something but I’m watching your feet.” In other words, talk is cheap. If you say the village needs rescuing, if you can elegantly describe the frightening situation our community finds itself in, it’s time to quit whining, quit posting, quit blaming and do something. When I sit in those courtrooms and watch one kid after another go down because they don’t have someone of substance who looks like them and can speak to their gifts and potential, I realize how incredibly difficult our challenge will continue to be. These kids don’t have a healthy village to look out for them so they join the first thing that feels like one. They want to belong, to be respected, to be loved. If they can’t find that at home or on the team, or in the village, they’ll find it anywhere it presents itself. I am always amazed at stories like when a goose is raised with dogs, in time the goose thinks it’s a dog.

I have found that beneath the surface of the tough guy bravado they learn to exhibit, most of these young men are scared and lost. They are trapped and don’t know it, but sense it which makes them lean even more on false bravado. Since the village no longer lovingly corrects and guides them, tragically, these kids double-down on celebrating a life of ignorance and failure. They seek shiny objects and out-sized tales of lawlessness to prove their worth, rather than working for a shiny life. “I’m a real nigga”, is a phrase I often hear them say. I often respond saying, “yeah, without education and a plan you’re a real nigga alright–real ignorant, real limited, real useless and real broke.”

Red Foxx used to joke that if you follow an ugly person home, somebody ugly is going to answer the door. The axiom fits any way you slice it. If you follow a bright, disciplined, humble, hard-working and studious person home, a similarly situated person is likely to answer the door. We must rebuild the village somehow. In these regressive, lawless times, countless more lives will be lost if we don’t, and the future of Black people will be in even greater peril. Make no mistake. We are fighting for the future of the next two or three Black generations. We’re fighting for the future of the race.  We are fighting for our minds, bodies, and our souls, and by my read, we are in the final rounds and we need a knockout to win. Put your hands up and get in the ring. I’m waiting for you.

David Robinson

Bonafide Stratevist (Strategic Activist)