The paralysis of decorum

Four years ago, I had an experience that shook me to my core. I was returning from an evening jog around 9 PM when I was stopped and interrogated by an off-duty police officer patrolling our apartment complex. He wanted to know where I was coming from. 

I was wearing black gym shorts with white squares on the sides, a gray tank top and black running shoes. I wiped the sweat from my face with the back of my hand and calmly explained that I was coming back from a jog around the neighborhood. 

As I proceeded toward my apartment gate, he demanded evidence of my residence. Evidence? I don’t normally carry my leasing contract with me, so I wasn’t sure how to satisfy his request.

I responded that I did, in fact, live there.

Then, it hit me.

I finally figured out how to prove that I was a resident. Instead of telling him, I could just show him. So, I unlocked the gate with my clicker.

He was not convinced.

“What’s your apartment number?”

In case you’re wondering, this was not an affluent neighborhood. It was a regular apartment building on the Southwest side of Houston. As the cop followed me and kept questioning in a stern voice, I thought about my young son who was asleep in his room. 

I thought about the spate of black deaths at the hands of the police. I thought about Eric Garner, Alton Sterling, and Philando Castile. I thought about how their once-promising lives had been reduced to mere hashtags. 

“How do I know you’re not a drug dealer?" He asked.

“I’m not a drug dealer, sir,” I replied.

I kept walking. I was trying to keep calm, but I was terrified beyond words. 

I did not want to become another hashtag. I silently made one of those pledges people make to God in desperate times—the same one I make whenever I’m pulled over by a cop. I prayed silently: “Lord, please let me survive this encounter. Don’t let me become another hashtag. I don’t want my son to grow up without a father.” 

The cop followed me to my apartment, stood outside, and watched me walk up to my door. As I fumbled with my keys, I could feel his gaze on me. I walked in and closed the door behind me. I couldn’t get in fast enough. I slumped onto my couch, breathing a sigh of relief.

When I first shared this story on Facebook four years ago, some of my white friends unfriended me. One accused me of being paranoid for no reason. I was grateful for her response because it validated the idea that her experience with the police is different from mine. When the police shows up, she expects to be protected. When the police shows up, I expect to be killed.

Some claim that black people can avoid being killed by police by behaving appropriately. That’s like saying that women can avoid being raped by dressing "appropriately." The problem with this sentiment is obvious. The burden is placed on the oppressed, while the oppressor is absolved of responsibility.

The "act appropriately" camp also ignores reality—Botham Jean was fatally shot in his own apartment by a Dallas police officer who entered Jean's unit believing it was her own. How could he have behaved properly in that scenario?

As we learned from the Christian Cooper story, the police is often used as a weapon against black bodies.

I’m lucky that I’ve managed to survive every encounter with the police. So many black men and women are not so fortunate. 

In the wake of the George Floyd lynching, I understand the struggle many black professionals face when they choose to speak up against the systemic oppression that breeds and sustains racial violence against black people.

Any genuine denouncement of systemic oppression heightens the anxiety of those who benefit from the system. It doesn't matter how you frame it. It doesn't matter how many times you clarify that saying "black lives matter" doesn't mean other lives don't. It’s an uncomfortable conversation, even for many well-meaning people who never have to face daily microaggressions. It will likely remain a difficult topic until racial discourse reaches a level of social acceptance.

So, I understand the paralysis of decorum that tempers your desire to denounce oppressive structures, some of which are literally killing black people in our country. 

Institutional racism is real. And, it needs to be dismantled everywhere.

Rejecting racism is not a political cause; it‘s a human cause. 

So, what can you do?

If you find yourself grappling with the decision to speak up or take action, don't give in to ambiguity. Remind yourself that you are choosing between good and evil. You are choosing between humanity and inhumanity. You are choosing between life and death.

If at least one of the cops who watched the lynching of George Floyd had said something, Mr. Floyd might still be alive today.

To my black brothers and sisters, to allies and friends of the African-American community, partners, brands, and organizations who have spoken out against systemic oppression, thank you for raising your voice.

Thank you for recognizing that the first step to solving any problem is to acknowledge the problem. 

Thank you for recognizing that the consequences of silence and inaction are more dangerous than the discomfort of speech and action. 

Thank you for recognizing that racism isn’t just immoral, it’s bad business for everyone. I wish I could fast-forward the calendar to show you that you’re on the right side of history.

That said, it’s important to recognize that the journey has only just begun.

The work must also be done.

Because.

Speech is not enough.

Speech is merely the oil that lubricates the change machine. Action is the lever necessary to shift society forward.

My hope is that your voice will raise the cry of the oppressed until it's too loud to ignore, and that your action will help bring forth the change we desperately need.