The Day after the Verdict, at the Waffle House, Listening & Grading End-of-Semester Papers:
A Poet Report from the Arena {again}
"So many people in the arena here, you know, were underprivileged anyway, so this is working out very well for them."
—Barbara Bush, commenting on the Astrodome evacuees, after Hurricane KatrinaAt a news conference, during the trial, the brother of Walter Scott said that when his brother was a boy he "loved to run."
One is wearing khaki and camouflage, the other a grey suit with Miami sunset tie. They have coffee in front of them and no food. They are not trying to whisper. They want me to hear them. So out with it.
“Two boys riding around Charleston with a broken tail light, in of all things, a Mercedes Benz. Come on, man. A policeman sees that. What’s that boy doing driving a Mercedes Benz?”
“Then he takes off running. Why’d he do something stupid like that ”
Maybe he ran because maybe he was a boy who loved to run. Maybe he ran because he had run somewhere before in his life and made it there safely. Around bases to home? Up the court? To the bus? The front desk of the library? Maybe he was scared. Maybe he was running from his child support payments. Maybe he ran because he had always been able to depend upon his pudgy aging legs that had always gotten him out of trouble before. Maybe once upon a time he was good at running?
Eight shots are fired at the back of the boy who loved to run, at 12 feet – at 14 feet – at 15.5 feet – at 17 feet – at 18 feet he falls – .
After the assassination of the running boy, the police officer picks up and then drops the gun near the body, like maybe he had seen done on Law & Order.
A young man walking to work has pulled out his cell phone and is recording, in living color, the assassination. Every bullet, all 8 of them, and every planting-of-the-weapon footsteps, 17 total. The young man is courageous and smart. He knows somewhere in his body that this is the age of the faith, of turning to see the evidence of things unseen. He will not look away from the horror unfolding. He will get involved. As he tries to hold his hand steady he thinks about the family of the man lying with his nose now hammered into the ground. He believes his footage will matter to those human beings who want and believe in the truth.
"Did you hear him say last week, when he testified, that he picked the gun up and threw it where he did, just to get it out of the way, so nobody else would get hurt?"
"Yea man, that was a pretty good one. Next time I need a lawyer I think I know who to call." They clink coffee cups.
The now fired police officer arrives in court shaved and polished. He looks a little like Andy Griffith. In his suit and tie, a light touch of gray in his hair, he is the epitome of their trustworthy son. Before the end of the trial he takes the stand and begins to cry as he tells the court how deathly "afraid for his life" he was.
One of them on the jury, who like all the others, was sworn to fairness and impartiality, knows exactly what the former policeman is describing. He has never talked about it before. He won’t talk about it here. But there was a moment when he saw another thin or was it pudgy, Black man, also running, was it across a field, or was it in town? He can’t remember now. That man was also running away from where the juror was heading. Had the skinny or fat man been trying to catch a bus to work or get to school? The juror can’t remember the details. He can only remember the feeling. The running man’s hair was wild and free and bouncing all over his head. A particular feeling had run through him, all kerosene and match. He knew the man was running in the opposite direction but still he felt so threatened. He thought his life was in danger too. He stood still in his tracks until the running Black man was all the way out of sight. He decided then and there: Any Black man, not in uniform, who was not running for a medal or a National Championship, or Uncle Sam, but who was just running because he had legs – no matter the direction – toward him or away, was just plain terrifying scary. He would always believe this and never change his mind. The sight of a Black man - doing this – would always make him feel unbelievably uncomfortable and no longer the confidant man he knew himself to be. The juror didn’t understand why these people couldn’t just walk wherever they needed to go?
The greatest American fear of all time: The sight of a Black body in full free running flight.
"why did that boy take off running like that? Should’ve known better? This is South Carolina man! You don’t run from policeman in South Carolina! You know what I’m saying?"
"We got laws. He run like he was scared a something? like something was chasing him. A hound dog? What? Who was he afraid of – wasn’t nothing but a policeman trying to do his job and get to the truth. He sure made the wrong decision that time."
If you can bear to watch the footage of Walter Scott running his last race, then you will see, in living color, what the fear of being Black in America the Beautiful looks like. American history can make the best of us take off & run.
"Yea, and let’s get to the truth of why was he driving that Mercedes Benz."
Laughter from them both slapping hands high up in the two egg and hash brown air.
"Well, it’s a real shame he went on and died but man what a real tragedy it would’ve been if they had put that police officer behind bars for the rest of his life. What about his family, Brother? His livelihood? Put away with all of them kind. They say His mama was in the courtroom every day." The one with the Miami sunset tie punctuates "every" and "day" with his butter knife on the table. "Nice family I hear."
When some of them see us they see a dime a dozen. They see there’s more of them where they come from but there’s only one of us. They see lucky disadvantaged underprivileged bastards stuck in the Astrodome after Katrina. They see people who they don’t believe hurt like they do, or have real families, like they do, or feel pain, like they do, or shed tears, like they do. They see people who they believe have a tougher kind of skin and higher tolerance for being hurt because of the mighty long hurt we have been through.
Before they leave the Waffle House the camouflaged one says,
"Oh, they’ll be alright. They’ll settle back down after while. They can take it." He takes a quick look my way. "Believe me they are used to this kind of thing."
And the other one who signals to the waitress that he’ll pay the tab, adds a little more,
"His mama will say her prayer of forgiveness to everybody just as soon as the TV camera rolls in and they’ll scream and shout awhile and then everything will get back to normal."
—Nikky Finney