Who Fears America?
Who Fears America?
The reality of how protests unfolded the last year underlines the blatant inequities Black people face every day.
I marched down the streets of Brooklyn in June, surrounded by friends and thousands of strangers as we screamed for justice for George Floyd.
The memory of that night will stay with me for the rest of my life. The crowd around me was dwindling in size when I noticed a large traffic barrel in the middle of an intersection — the type used in construction sites.
A lone police officer, looking at me, left his squadron in a mad dash to pick up the fallen barrel. He snatched it off the pavement, and then in sync, we locked eyes. He continued to stare at me; I watched incredulously as he howled, saying, “Do something. I dare you!”
He cocked back his arms, and from five feet away, launched the barrel at my face. In shock, my body reacted quicker than my mind could comprehend what was happening. I swatted away the barrel, scraping up my left arm in the process. He started to approach me, grinning with a sense of invincibility, and proceeded to remove his baton from his waist and slap the stick in his hand. Other officers who observed what transpired between us rushed to grab him, frantically ushering him back into their crew. He continued to stare at me with no fear of retribution. The crowd erupted around me, hurling obscenities at the officer in my honor.
But I stood still. Rage was pumping through my blood. But I stopped where I was and let my friend guide me away from the conflict. I chose restraint as I knew that my protest was worth more than a fight with that officer.
When I was young, the Christian world that indoctrinated me taught me that fear is synonymous with respect. Fear is synonymous with love. To fear God is to love God, and to fear God is to respect his divine power. This ideology took root all over my life. Growing up in a Black household, I was instructed to respect my elders. In other words, recognize the authority of the powers at be. I understood the sensation of fear to be necessary because God ordained it.
As a boy, I was taught to be afraid of the police. Just like God, law enforcement is all-powerful. They demand admiration, and society told me they deserve my love. I was forced to respect their divine power. Being afraid of the authorities was an everyday occurrence that plagued my existence. Like all other Black parents, my mom had a conversation with me before I was a teenager about how to act around law enforcement. It was the moment that I lost my childhood innocence and was obligated to become an adult.
“In the presence of a police officer, be on your best behavior and have your hands in clear view at all times,” I remember her telling me. “You have reason to be afraid of the cops even if you have not committed a crime. You don’t give them any reason to stop you and keep your hood down anytime you wear a sweatshirt. Say yes ma’am and yes sir.”
Black people are taught at a young age what fear is, and to live without it could cost you your life.
On January 6th, 2021, I, alongside the world, watched protestors infiltrate the United States Capitol. Thousands of people arrived in Washington D.C. in objection to the Senate’s confirmation of President-Elect Joe Biden. One Congressman raised his fist in solidarity with the crowd as a badge of honor for helping sow seeds of dissent.
The events of that day — they will also stick with me for the rest of my life. I sat at home and watched the police stand back and stand by as a pro-Trump mob initiated a siege. Police officers took selfies with invaders and kindly escorted lawbreakers down the stairs.
Rioters stormed the offices of State representatives, hauled off loot commemorating our nation’s history, and commandeered the Senate Floor. Insurgents disrespected our country as they championed the Confederate flag on national television. Not once, not even during the Civil War, has anyone dared to wave a Confederate flag within the US Capitol.
This past summer, before each march, I would pray to God that any protest I attended would remain peaceful. My friends and I would deliberate over our safety strategy in case the police pepper-sprayed us, beat us with batons, or attempted an arrest; we were afraid of what could happen. When, unprovoked, that police officer attacked me, it was required of me to act with restraint.
My exchange with the officer was nothing more than a display of power posturing, similar to the pro-Trump mob’s violent demonstration. However, the difference between my encounter with that cop, and this raging mob, was the shift in power dynamics in favor of the protestor. The difference was these protestors did not demonstrate restraint. The difference was these protestors didn’t grow up fearing God. The difference was these protestors were White.
Being a Black man, I have come to understand that there is an important distinction between having fear and being afraid. Fear is a substitute for reverence. Reverence is an evolved form of respect. Reverence is the deep admiration for something or someone worthy of high esteem.
We hold reverence for the Declaration of Independence. We hold reverence for wedding vows. We revere our elders and the sacrifices they endured on our behalf. Fear is not the act of being scared. To be afraid is to feel anxiety or to feel frightened. Fear encapsulates the totality of our emotions. Just as we appreciate the ocean for its neverending blue, we fear the depth of its vastness. We fear what is lovely, just as we fear what is powerful. Fear is reverence.
Growing up Black, you develop a fear of America. You recognize how America can administer severe punishment and sometimes acts in contradiction to the same values that allow it to thrive. You disdain America’s stick. Concurrently, you recognize how this same country grants you your freedom, and its ideals allow you the pursuit of happiness. We cherish America’s carrot. Fear is the awareness of someone or something’s complex entirety. Black people fear America because we accept the whole experience of American life. Fear is an act of submission.
The rioters who stormed the Capitol inhabit lives absent of fear. They have no reverence for this country and no reverence for our values. They showcased their faux patriotism and committed acts of domestic terrorism. They started an insurrection in the name of Donald Trump and expelled all notions of American pride. They did not fear the stick because they have only experienced the carrot. This was made abundantly clear by how the rioters felt no need to wear masks, not because they disbelieved in the ever-looming threat of Covid-19, but because they feared no retribution for broadcasting their faces to the entire world. They needn’t mask their crimes with anonymity because, just like the cop who attacked me, they, too, felt invincible.
A video captured Black Capitol workers cleaning up after the armed combatants. It was a display of true patriotism — a perfect depiction of the American political caste system. If there were ever a group justified in storming the U.S. Capitol, it would be Black Americans, yet there has never been any such attempt.
This is because Black Americans fear America. We hold a deep reverence for the institutions that knit this country together. Those rioters represent the opposite.
Anyone who contributed to the uprising and infiltration of the U.S. Capitol in any fashion, such as Senator Josh Hawley and Senator Ted Cruz, does not love the United States of America. They are diametrically opposed to the ideals of this nation and are, therefore, enemies of the State.
The reality of how these protests unfolded illuminated the blatant inequities Black people face every day. When I protested, the police did not pose for selfies. They posed for war. They did not step aside and encourage lawlessness. They stepped forward and met us with ferocity. The reality is that some Americans revere our country while others disrespect it. Now, I not only fear America; I have become afraid of it.