The trial of Derek Chauvin, the former Minneapolis police officer the world watched murder George Floyd last year, began Monday. On the day of opening arguments, I mentioned my skepticism about any jury’s ability to deliver justice for Mr. Floyd’s family due to the lethal level of white supremacy and anti-Black prejudice baked into American society. A conviction of Chauvin on any of the three charges requires guilty votes by all twelve jury members—a single hold-out, and Chauvin leaves the court a free man.
Revisiting the murder of Mr. Floyd still traumatizes me. I purposely avoided watching the complete footage of his demise. The snippets I have seen of Mr. Floyd pleading for his life while being executed in a manner unfit for a dog is all I need to see. I know how the story ends.
The work of advocating for racial equity is no crime, but an act of love.
If viewing the other footage presented of Mr. Floyd—whether laughing with people inside the Cup Food convenience store, sorting through the contents of his pockets, or emotionally breaking down at gunpoint with the police—is tough for me (which it is), I cannot begin to imagine the depth of grief and abject pain his loved ones are experiencing. Watching the trial must surely reopen their wounds. My heart breaks for them.
Judging from the witnesses’ reactions during their testimonies thus far, reliving the events of that day scars their psyches all over again. Today is Day 3 of the trial, and I holed myself away from the trial to write this article. On a brief break, I caught sight of an eyewitness on the witness stand, Charles McMillian, an older Black man with a white beard sobbing into tissues. The trauma is profound. And the damage, palpable.
I am in no way the spokesperson for all Black people throughout the land, nor do I pretend to be, but as a Black of a certain age, it’s safe to say that Black people the world over, especially those of us in America, are also being retraumatized all over again as well. The public execution of a Black man is nothing new in America. Since the São João Baustista arrived in Virginia with the first Africans kidnapped from Angola, before America was America, this country has demonstrated a lack of regard, if not disdain, for Black bodies. In the murder of George Floyd, we see ourselves, family members, and friends who could become victims of a similar fate at any given moment.
In stark contrast to the brutality of the May 25, 2020 events, there is a lesson central to what is commonly referred to as allyship. But like everyone else, I use it out of convenience. Personally, I’m not a fan of the term “ally,” as it carries with it the notion that the services provided are performative in nature, rendered in exchange for approval, recognition, or some other reward. Nor do I embrace the label “accomplice.” People favor this moniker because it hints at one having skin in the game or something at stake. It flat-out implies the person(s) have or will commit a crime. The work of advocating racial equity is no crime but an act of love.
Supporting Black, Indigenous, and People of Color in our pursuit of racial equity works best when it is rooted in the desire to hinder or cease the occurrence of social injustices by leveraging one’s self, gifts, talents, abilities, and advantages to benefit a marginalized person. But with that said, allyship, in its purest form, is simply being a better person. It’s being the best version of yourself, bringing that self to the fore, and being fully present in your advocacy when the moment calls.
One needs only watch the testimonies of the first two days of the trial to understand that this is precisely what each witness did. The people on the scene observed Derek Chauvin—enabled by his badge, service pistol, and the presence of four intervening officers—commit an act so heinous they felt compelled to act.
This is the core of being an ally: calling out racial injustice for what it is and speaking truth to white power via the means that are uniquely you.
They spoke out, pleaded, and attempted to reason with the officers, but whiteness coupled with a badge is a powerful drug, and they remained unmoved. The 911 dispatch operator called her supervisor and the police. The uniformed off-duty firefighter in the area attempted to give Mr. Floyd medical aid, but her efforts were rebuffed. And a teenager, Darnella Frazier, had the presence of mind and courage to record the cellphone video of Mr. Floyd’s murder in its entirety.
These ordinary people, each in their own way, neither shied away from nor ignored what they recognized as patently wrong. Because of their character and their decision to do what they could at the time, they can now tell the world exactly what they saw. The truth. Not “their truth” or some version of it. Judging from their testimonies, the impact of the truth in their advocacy might deliver justice for George Floyd.
This is the core of being an ally. Not throwing oneself in harm’s way, but calling out racial injustice for what it is and speaking truth to white power via the means that are uniquely you. Be it in the grocery store, the workplace, the doctor’s office, or the schoolyard, racism needs to be confronted. Otherwise, the extraordinary becomes commonplace.
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