This journal entry is devoted entirely to the memory of George Floyd, the African-American man who was needlessly and horrifically killed by police officers in Minneapolis on May 25, 2020.
Do not read this journal if you don't want to know what happened to Mr. Floyd, or if you're tired of hearing about what happened to Mr. Floyd, or even if you're tired of hearing about black Americans being beaten and killed while in police custody. But know this before you decide whether or not to read on: If this happened to someone in your family, you would want the world to know about it, and be outraged about it. And you would want justice for the loved one needlessly killed while in police custody. But why do so many of us expect justice when the George Floyds cannot get justice? The answer to that question is why you should read this journal entry instead of turning a stone ear to what's really going on in this country.
Think about why you may not have to worry about this sort of horrific tragedy happening to you or someone in your family in the first place. Speaking for myself, I can honestly say I have no fear of being killed while in police custody. Why? Because I'm white. In fact, I think now is the perfect time to share an episode from my past that helps explain why I believe my skin color virtually ensures I will never be murdered in police custody.
A few friends and I were doing it up at a bar in North Myrtle Beach one night when I was about 27. I used to drink quite a bit back then, and on that night the whiskey was tasting way too good. My behavior must have rubbed someone the wrong way because out of nowhere some guy sucker-punched me in the back of my right kidney. If you've never been unexpectedly punched in the kidney, I don't recommend it. For a split-second, I literally thought I'd been stabbed; that's how bad it hurt. Before I could recover from the knee-buckling blow, my assailant was tackled by my good friend Mike, a fellow golf professional, hailing from West Virginia. I quickly gathered myself and joined in the fray, which at this point entailed several drunken idiots throwing punches at anything moving.
The melee was broken up in short order by a couple of very large, very angry bouncers. However, my anger at having been sucker-punched for no apparent reason (drunken idiocy may justify some measure of retribution, but sucker-punching one in the kidney is way over the line) was beyond everyone else's, and so I continued going after my assailant while the bouncers successfully held me back. This proved to be an unwise decision, as they immediately, harshly and literally threw me out of the bar and onto the concrete about three or four stair steps below the entrance to the bar.
As I spun around to try and re-enter the bar to go after my assailant, one of the bouncers warned me to leave because the cops had been called. Being drunk, I informed him in less-than-genteel terms that I wasn't going anywhere until the cowardly son-of-a-bitch who hit me came out and fought me like a man. The bouncer yelled a few choice, less-than-genteel insults at me and told me to have it my way. He then went back into the bar, standing just inside the glass doors to ensure I couldn't get back in.
I don't know how long I stood outside that bar waiting for my assailant to come out so I could finish what he started, but all of a sudden a couple police officers were walking towards me. I didn't realize it at the time, but the officers didn't know I had anything to do with the fight. To them I was just a guy standing outside the bar. One of the officers said something to me like, "I hear there's been a little excitement here tonight."
This is the point in the story I call my Dorothy and Toto moment because for some reason I must have thought I was still in Kansas, or South Dakota in my particular case, where small town bar fights typically end with local law enforcement telling everyone to settle down and go home. But as I was about to find out, I was not in Kansas/South Dakota anymore, to paraphrase Dorothy's comment to Toto.
Thinking I was still in small town South Dakota, or perhaps that Myrtle Beach, South Carolina was like small town South Dakota, which it most definitely is not, I turned to the officers and said something like, "Yeah, and I'm going to kick the shit out out of that son-of-a-bitch when he comes out." What I actually said was more threatening and had a lot more swear words, but I don't recall the exact curses and threats. All I know for sure is that the police officers quickly concluded I was a genuine threat to others, and so before I knew it I was being slammed face-first into a car hood, handcuffed and read my Miranda rights. I was then shoved into the back of the patrol car and hauled off to the pokey.
The officers were actually quite polite and professional to me, other than the face-slamming-into-the car-hood part. Once at the jail I was met with continued politeness and professionalism by the booking officer, although I seem to recall my behavior was not quite as respectful. I was then led off to spend the remainder of the evening in a small-ish metal box they called a jail cell. Not long after I was locked into my private metal box the booking officer actually brought me a couple pieces of Pizza Hut pizza and a Diet Coke. It was like room service for the idiotically drunk.
In the morning, I was collected by my friend Mike, and went merrily on my way. I think we went and had pancakes at a local pancake house afterwards. The whole episode cost me a night in jail and a $75 fine for disorderly conduct, not including the numerous $6 shots of Kentucky whiskey I downed and the breakfast I bought Mike for collecting my hungover carcass from the jail. And I was no worse for the wear, other than several bruises and a sore jaw, which I attributed to any number of blows I skillfully blocked with my face, as well as a little blood in the urine the next day, which I attributed to the knee-buckling blow I involuntarily blocked with my kidney.
In retrospect, I wonder how I would have been treated by the police had I been a drunken, belligerent black man arrested for violent behavior and spitting out plausible threats towards another person. Because that's exactly what happened, except I'm white. My "punishment" for such behavior, as previously detailed, was not police brutality, but two slices of pizza, a Diet Coke, a jail cell all to myself so I could quietly sleep off the numerous Kentucky whiskeys I'd indelicately sloshed down my gullet, and a $75 fine. All of it handled with politeness and professionalism by the police, excepting the face-into-the-car-hood part of it. I've had less enjoyable stays at a Motel 6 than I did in that Myrtle Beach jail, even including the face full of car hood I was abruptly force fed. Frankly, the nose-meet-Buick part of the evening was preferable to the horribly rude service I once experienced at a luxury hotel on Amelia Island off Florida's Atlantic coast.
But hey, we all have our crosses to bear, and if mine was at the hands of a snot-nosed manager in a luxury hotel set in a tropical paradise, then let it be known I bore that cross with courage and perseverance.
I intentionally used humor in the telling of that story to prove a point: Other than my disgraceful behavior, the episode was quite funny. I, a six-foot tall, 200 lb white male dressed in an old t-shirt, ratty old blue jeans and boots, was arrested for being drunk, violent and verbally threatening towards another person. And yet, the episode turns out to be far more humorous than tragic.
That's important to understand; so think about it for a bit.
It's also important to understand that I never felt any fear of the police throughout my "ordeal," if I can even call it that. The same can't be said of black men in America when they're arrested. We have a long history of police brutality towards black males in America. Because of this fact, being arrested is often a very frightening experience for black males in this country.
I've often wondered how I would have reacted that night in Myrtle Beach if I felt that the officers arresting me were likely to beat me or otherwise brutalize me in some horrific way while I was handcuffed (click here to see Abner Louima incident). I'm guessing I would have been scared shitless, and struggled to get free. And that is exactly the situation black males find themselves in when arrested by non-black police officers in this country.
It's easy for white people to say things like, "Just don't resist arrest and things won't get out of hand." Number one, that's blaming the victim. Police officers, particularly those in large cities, are very well-trained, well-armed law enforcement professionals; things should almost never get out of hand due to the officer's actions. Number two, how can you blame someone for resisting arrest when that person knows there's a very real chance they will get beaten even if they don't resist? And by the way, if you've never been forcibly subdued and handcuffed by police officers, I can tell you it's a very unnerving, vulnerable and helpless feeling, even if you don't fear being beaten or abused by the officers. I can only imagine the panic and desperation I would feel if I knew there was a good chance I would be beaten while handcuffed and defenseless. But panic and desperation is exactly what black men in America often feel when in police custody. And as already mentioned, there is a long history of police brutality towards black men in America to justify that panic and desperation.
Multiple videos taken of the incident in Minneapolis show Mr. Floyd face down with his hands cuffed behind his back, and three police officers kneeling on him, including Officer Chauvin pressing his entire weight onto Mr. Floyd's neck with his knee, for 8 minutes and 46 seconds, 2 minutes and 53 seconds of which occurred after Mr. Floyd became unresponsive. The officers reported that such measures were necessary because Mr. Floyd was resisting arrest. However, there are multiple eyewitnesses and multiple videos of the incident that provide no evidence of any resistance by Mr. Floyd. And even if Mr. Floyd did resist arrest, the videos clearly show that the three officers kneeling on top of him while he's face down and handcuffed had long since completely subdued him to the point of immobilization. In one video you can actually hear bystanders telling the police that Mr. Floyd can't breathe, and even that he looks like he's dying. One bystander protests that the police were preventing Mr. Floyd from breathing, urging them, "Get him off the ground ... You could have put him in the car by now. He's not resisting arrest or nothing. You're enjoying it. Look at you. Your body language."
And indeed, Officer Chauvin does actually seem to enjoy brutalizing Mr. Floyd, sarcastically asking Mr. Floyd, "What do you want?" while he casually rests his hand in his pocket and gouges his full weight into Mr. Floyd's neck. Mr. Floyd can be heard gasping that he can't breathe. Officer Chauvin doesn't even acknowledge Mr. Floyd's pleas. Soon after Officer Chauvin's cruelly sarcastic question, Mr. Floyd falls silent and stops moving altogether, yet Officer Chauvin continues kneeling his full weight onto Mr. Floyd's neck for almost three more minutes.
The video of Mr. Floyd dying under the knee of Officer Chauvin is almost unbearable to watch. It's made all the more unbearable by the callous indifference displayed by all of the officers involved, even as bystanders are essentially pleading with the police to get off his neck so he can breathe.
And how ironic it is that Mr. Floyd was murdered by a police officer kneeling on his neck, when Colin Kaepernick protested police brutality against black men by kneeling during the national anthem. We as a nation would have been much better off had we listened to Colin Kaepernick instead of tearing him down as being un-American. In fact, George Floyd's wasn't the only life destroyed because Colin Kaepernick's pleas for justice and equality fell on a nation's willfully deaf ears: Officer Chauvin's ruined life and career are also casualties of that willful deafness America has become so adept at. And to all those who will focus their criticism on the peaceful protests turning into violent riots, those too would not be happening if this nation had learned the lesson Colin Kaepernik was trying desperately to teach us.
Something tells me this nation will continue its failure to learn that lesson, and instead will search for any way possible to make Mr. Floyd's death about what he did wrong and how his actions contributed to his own death. I hope to God I'm wrong about that, but if this country's long, gruesome and continued history of racism is any indication, I don't think I will be.
And speaking of what Mr. Floyd did wrong, the cops were called because he passed a counterfeit $20 in a convenience store. He hadn't shot anyone. He hadn't stabbed anyone. He wasn't dealing drugs. Hell, he wasn't even drunk, belligerent, fighting and verbally threatening anyone. (That was me, the lucky-to-be-white guy.) In fact, when the cops arrived on the scene, Mr. Floyd was calmly sitting in his car. Hell, he wasn't even frothing at the mouth, yelling that he was going to beat the shit out of someone. (That was the lucky-to-be-white guy again.)
When I think about it all, I bet no one in Dorothy's family ever feared being beaten or killed by police officers blaring their sirens in rural Kansas. It was the cackling Wicked Witch of the West with the howling monkey minions that turned out to be their trumpeters of fear and evil.