Every time I think of it, Oh Lord, I shudder. The cop asked Mwata a question that haunts him to this day. He asked, nastily, hatefully, if Mwata were stupid.
You crafted Mwata in his mother’s womb, God. You know him inside out. You know the quiet anger my son felt at having acquired a world-class education only to be questioned about his intelligence by a white boy whose IQ translated to an Intimidation Quotient provided by a shield that allowed him to mow down smart niggers with impunity. When Mwata said he didn’t know what he meant, and wondered aloud why he asked such a question, the cop got even more agitated. He snapped that he should take Mwata to jail and that my son had no right to be driving a car. He shouted that if his son weren’t with him that he’d have no problem placing Mwata in handcuffs and locking him up. The cop admitted that the only thing that was stopping him was that he had no place to put the five-year-old. That may have saved Mwata from certain arrest and—who knows?—maybe from an unjust, untimely death.
It was at that moment that the force of everything rained down on Mwata. The cop’s tone was threatening, his hand was on his gun, and Mosi had awakened from sleep to see his father being disrespected and threatened by an officer of the law. Fear struck Mwata hard. He glanced at his son in the rearview mirror and had one thought.
I don’t want to die tonight. I don’t want my son to see me shot.
That brings tears to my eyes even as I chant this prayer. Even as I ask you, Oh God, to give me the strength to soldier on. What a chilling recognition of the high cost for such a simple offense, all because an enraged white male cop was feeling his oats and seeking to humiliate my son. All because he could get away with it. Even if my son had been guilty, his crime wouldn’t have merited the implied threat of lethal force.
Mwata continued the dance of complete compliance. He nodded his head in agreement with the cop, doing anything he could not to be cut down in front of Mosi, my grandson, who, earlier that day, had been chosen to go to the principal’s office to recite the Pledge of Allegiance over the loudspeaker for the entire school. The bitter paradox wasn’t lost on Mwata or me when I heard the story.
The officer gave Mwata a ticket and a stern warning that if he ever saw him again he would take him straight to jail. He also insisted that Mwata park the car and not drive again that night. Literally five seconds after he let Mwata go the cop pulled over another black motorist. So many whites say they hate the quotas they associate with affirmative action, but quotas don’t seem to bother the white folk in blue who can’t get enough of them as they harass one black citizen after another.
To this day my grandson is worried every time he sees a cop. He fears the cops will try to arrest him and his father. He can’t understand why the color of his skin is a reason to be targeted by the police. Mosi is only seven years old.
Lord, what are we to do?
When I look at Mosi and my other grandchildren, Layla and Maxem, all beautiful, all bright, all full of life, I swear to you, Oh Lord, it fills me with fear, and then anger, and grief, to think that some son of a bitch with a badge and a gun could just take their lives, take our lives, as if it means nothing. I am beyond rage, Oh Lord, at the utter complicity of even good white folk who claim that they care, and yet their voices don’t ring out loudly and consistently against an injustice so grave that it sends us to our graves with frightening frequency. They wring their hands in frustration to prove that they empathize with our plight—that is, those who care enough to do so—and then throw them up in surrender.
What we mostly hear is deafening silence. What we mostly see is crushing indifference. Lord, what are we to do in a nation of people who claim to love you and hold fast to your word and way and yet they let their brothers and sisters murder us like we are animals?
Lord, Dear Lord, I don’t want to feel this way, but I swear to you I want to kill dead any Godforsaken soul who thinks that killing black people is an acceptable price to pay for keeping this nation safe. But then, am I any better than that soul?
I am reminded, Oh Lord, of the modern parable of the chicken and pig having a conversation about each making a contribution to breakfast. They are stopped short when they realize that their contributions aren’t equally demanding, won’t have the same consequence. All the chicken has to do to make a good breakfast is lay an egg. But the pig has to give his behind to make bacon. He has to die.
Lord, Oh Lord, I am so tired—we are so tired—of being the pigs. We are tired of having to sacrifice our hides to feed America. That may help explain why some black folk take special delight in referring to the cops as pigs. We want them to share our grief, to feel our pain, if just a little of it, in a term they find offensive. But if they think that insult is abominable, if the reference is disrespectful, can they not imagine, Oh Lord, what it means to be the pig, to surrender life to fill the bellies of a nation that eats our souls and culture while excreting us as so much waste?
Lord, convict this nation as never before. Let our lives testify to your majesty, your love, your grace—and may this land know your displeasure, taste your holy wrath, for killing us like pigs without conscience. Let this nation repent of its murderous ways. Only then will we even believe that white folk know the God who plants a foot on earth and regulates the wheel of time and circumstance. Until then, Oh Lord, give us the courage to tell the truth to white folk who need it more than air itself—who, we pray, will come to hunger for it more than they hunger for our death.
IV.
Scripture Reading
Do you know that a lot of the race problem grows out of the . . . need that some people have to feel superior. A need that some people have to feel . . . that their white skin ordained them to be first.
—Martin Luther King, Jr.
Book of Martin Luther King, Jr., 1968: 3–8