Today I sit in front of my computer with a heavy heart. This August 9th marks one year since an officer in Ferguson, Missouri shot and killed Michael Brown. One whole year, man. But so much has happened that it feels like it was just yesterday.
I was working in news when it happened, producing newscasts in Springfield, Missouri. I actually grew up in Brentwood, another suburb of St. Louis about twenty minutes outside of Ferguson. So you can imagine how surreal it was to see my hometown in the spotlight. To see video of the mall where I got my ears pierced, overrun with protestors. The major highways my mom took, to and from the airport -- shut down by hundreds and hundreds of demonstrators. My hidden gem of a city -- which usually only makes headlines if the Cardinals are winning -- was now the hottest spot in the universe. And not just for a weekend. We were the biggest story in news, on an international scale, for months on end.
I was working in news when it happened, producing newscasts in Springfield, Missouri. I actually grew up in Brentwood, another suburb of St. Louis about twenty minutes outside of Ferguson. So you can imagine how surreal it was to see my hometown in the spotlight. To see video of the mall where I got my ears pierced, overrun with protestors. The major highways my mom took, to and from the airport -- shut down by hundreds and hundreds of demonstrators. My hidden gem of a city -- which usually only makes headlines if the Cardinals are winning -- was now the hottest spot in the universe. And not just for a weekend. We were the biggest story in news, on an international scale, for months on end.
When you work in local news, you're not supposed to spout your opinion about political news events on social media. It's considered unprofessional, and could make your news organization come off as biased or subjective. From August to November 2014, it was incredibly difficult for me to keep my mouth shut about what was happening in Ferguson. But now I no longer work in news, and now I have my own little platform. So now I'm going to say how I really feel.
So, how do I feel, exactly one year after Michael Brown's death? The truth is -- not a whole lot different from how I felt last autumn. I feel sad for the community and family that lost a young man so suddenly, and so violently. I feel angry that no one ever thinks about Michael Brown as a real person with a past, a heart, a brain, a dream. No one deigns to think of him as human, because the first image of him that surfaced was grainy security footage of a strong-arm robbery. I continue to be angry that, because of that footage, it became easy for America to pin him as a thug, and claim that he got what he deserved on Canfield Drive.
I feel continually horrified by the ignorance, dispassion, and casual racism that always seem to come up in conversations about the shooting. I feel frustrated for the people I know, who have lost dozens of friends -- in real life and on Facebook -- because of those conversations. I feel fist-clenching, teeth-gritting, brow-furrowing rage when I think about how -- despite the fact that there have been several other deadly police shootings since Brown's death -- so much of America still will not acknowledge that systemic racism in law enforcement is a real problem.
So, how do I feel, exactly one year after Michael Brown's death? The truth is -- not a whole lot different from how I felt last autumn. I feel sad for the community and family that lost a young man so suddenly, and so violently. I feel angry that no one ever thinks about Michael Brown as a real person with a past, a heart, a brain, a dream. No one deigns to think of him as human, because the first image of him that surfaced was grainy security footage of a strong-arm robbery. I continue to be angry that, because of that footage, it became easy for America to pin him as a thug, and claim that he got what he deserved on Canfield Drive.
I feel continually horrified by the ignorance, dispassion, and casual racism that always seem to come up in conversations about the shooting. I feel frustrated for the people I know, who have lost dozens of friends -- in real life and on Facebook -- because of those conversations. I feel fist-clenching, teeth-gritting, brow-furrowing rage when I think about how -- despite the fact that there have been several other deadly police shootings since Brown's death -- so much of America still will not acknowledge that systemic racism in law enforcement is a real problem.
I feel like we are all waiting for a crucial explanation that will never come. Answers we'll never get. "Whys" and "hows" that will remain unfulfilled. I think the hardest thing for people to accept about the Michael Brown shooting is that despite the collection of autopsies, ballistics reports, and witness testimony at our disposal, we will never truly know how it went down or whether it was warranted.
In the aftermath of the grand jury's decision not to indict former officer Darren Wilson in Brown's shooting, I was faced with a whole new wheelhouse of feelings. I felt cheated, lied to, short-changed, and tragically unsurprised as I watched the announcement unfold on live TV. But I felt validated the next morning when I went into work, and saw pictures and video of protests happening all over the country. Not just St. Louis this time, but cities like Los Angeles, New York, Boston, Washington, Atlanta, Oakland, Eugene, Newark, and the list goes on. Rest assured -- if I had not been working in news at the time, I would have found a way to be a part of those demonstrations.
I also felt a strange sense of pride. It may sound weird, but I'm proud that the people in a little suburb of my hometown started the biggest national conversation of the decade. A necessary, long-overdue conversation that is still going strong one year later.
In the aftermath of the grand jury's decision not to indict former officer Darren Wilson in Brown's shooting, I was faced with a whole new wheelhouse of feelings. I felt cheated, lied to, short-changed, and tragically unsurprised as I watched the announcement unfold on live TV. But I felt validated the next morning when I went into work, and saw pictures and video of protests happening all over the country. Not just St. Louis this time, but cities like Los Angeles, New York, Boston, Washington, Atlanta, Oakland, Eugene, Newark, and the list goes on. Rest assured -- if I had not been working in news at the time, I would have found a way to be a part of those demonstrations.
I also felt a strange sense of pride. It may sound weird, but I'm proud that the people in a little suburb of my hometown started the biggest national conversation of the decade. A necessary, long-overdue conversation that is still going strong one year later.
If you've gotten this far into my post, I thank you for sticking with me. And as long as I've got you here, I want to ask you to do one simple thing today.
If you're white, like I am, I want you to take a good long look at yourself in the mirror, and appreciate what you've got. If you're religious, thank your god. If you're not, a simple "Boy, am I lucky" will suffice. But I urge you to look at the pale skin on your face and recognize the privilege that you have. Recognize the fact that you were born with it. Millions upon millions of people of color are fighting and struggling and dying every day to earn the kind of privilege, preference, and respect that you were fortunate enough to have from birth. And although it may be easy to criticize and speak ill of the protestors on TV who throw bottles at police cars, and burn down buildings, consider this -- if your people had been oppressed, degraded, dehumanized, demonized, humiliated, and slighted for decades, wouldn't you feel like setting a fire, too? Wouldn't you conclude that after all this time, the only real way to be seen is to get mad, get active, and call the media?
These are questions that white people never have to think about. Because. We're. White. But on this somber anniversary, when the anger and racism over Ferguson are still palpable everywhere in the U.S., I encourage you to think about it. Before you judge those protestors, consider what it must be like to march a mile in their shoes.
Below is a slideshow of photos I took during my visits to Ferguson, from September 2014 to July 2015. Not sure when I'll be able to make it back to this suburb, but I know it will always be in my heart.
If you're white, like I am, I want you to take a good long look at yourself in the mirror, and appreciate what you've got. If you're religious, thank your god. If you're not, a simple "Boy, am I lucky" will suffice. But I urge you to look at the pale skin on your face and recognize the privilege that you have. Recognize the fact that you were born with it. Millions upon millions of people of color are fighting and struggling and dying every day to earn the kind of privilege, preference, and respect that you were fortunate enough to have from birth. And although it may be easy to criticize and speak ill of the protestors on TV who throw bottles at police cars, and burn down buildings, consider this -- if your people had been oppressed, degraded, dehumanized, demonized, humiliated, and slighted for decades, wouldn't you feel like setting a fire, too? Wouldn't you conclude that after all this time, the only real way to be seen is to get mad, get active, and call the media?
These are questions that white people never have to think about. Because. We're. White. But on this somber anniversary, when the anger and racism over Ferguson are still palpable everywhere in the U.S., I encourage you to think about it. Before you judge those protestors, consider what it must be like to march a mile in their shoes.
Below is a slideshow of photos I took during my visits to Ferguson, from September 2014 to July 2015. Not sure when I'll be able to make it back to this suburb, but I know it will always be in my heart.