Is All Hope Lost?

By Zerline Hughes

I’m on the D.C. Metro Train at rush hour. It’s a rarity that I ride the subway — take public transportation even — these days.

I’m surrounded by people (one of the reasons I don’t appreciate public transportation) but was able to snag a seat for a change, watching people around me stand in discomfort. On this day, only certain faces stand out. The faces of my  Black men.

One wore light brown, wing-tipped oxfords with grey slacks. Another had lace up work boots with navy, uniform pants. There’s four more within eye shot that I notice with great detail. They all look to be leaving work — maybe some of them on their way to a late shift.

They stand out more today than ever because on this day, we got a second grand jury decision about the killing of yet another Black man by yet another police force: Eric Garner. Another Black male gone. No redemption, no raparations, no attempt at the restoration of justice, life.

I’m pretty serious about wanting to flee from this all. Maybe I should have nothing to fear as a Black woman (highly doubtful) — but I am fearful because I’m currently the sole provider for a Black male, and I will be for another seven years. Hey, let’s be real — I will provide my son something — casseroles, unwanted advice, childcare for his children (only every once in a while) — for the rest of my life, no matter how old he is. And what a blessing that will be. But at the rate we’re going, guaranteeing our Black men survive to see their golden years is starting to seem like a fantasy.

Here We Go Again: Watts Riots, Rodney King, Ferguson

By Zerline Hughes

My daughter, in awe, watches events unfold following the Ferguson, Missouri grand jury decision.

My mom always drilled into my head the saying, “if we don’t learn from our history, we are doomed to repeat it.” Dare I say she — and the original quoter, George Santayana — are apparently correct.

What’s happened tonight following the Ferguson grand jury announcement reminds me of when I was 14, driving with my mom down LaBrea just a few hours after the Rodney King beating decision was announced, rushing to get home to safety. Virtually every place we ever visited for fast food, appliance stores, shoe stores, kids activities was in ruins. Burnt to the ground. Most never rebuilt.

These two engrossed, watching the news coverage.

Now, here I am, 23 years later, as a parent, watching on TV with my own children the aftermath of the Ferguson, Missiouri, grand jury decision that delivered news to not indict Officer Darren Wilson who shot Michael Brown.

Tear gas. Heart attacks. Car fires, Bricks being thrown. Swat teams. Bats to windows. Looting of liquor stores. Masked residents.

It hurts. I’m having to explain this to my children, 9 and 11, what has happened. I’m having to answer questions. I’m having to shrug my shoulders because I don’t have the answers. The Associated Press professes to have some answers, and just moments ago published an article, “Answers to questions about the Ferguson grand jury.”

My daughter even asked, “why can’t the president arrest the police officer?”

Countdown to the Ferguson Grand Jury Announcement

By Zerline Hughes

As I write, we’re all watching national news channels, awaiting the Ferguson Grand Jury announcement. I really don’t want to watch. I’m scared. On the news, I see some ralliers are masked. I just heard “F*** the Police” playing while protestors sang along. It’s pretty tense out there in Ferguson, Missouri and so am I.

The announcement comes on the same day that the news told us a young boy in Cleveland, Ohio, was shot and killed by police. Yes; he had a BB gun on a playground, but he was a child. And now he’s not.

Same goes for Michael Brown. He was a kid. And now he’s not. All at the hands of a cop who, when it comes down to it, probably wasn’t trained all that well — nor was the city of Ferguson in dealing with civil unrest that soon followed. And that’s why I’m afraid.

I’m also afraid for my Black son. I’m almost thankful (yet still pissed) that he lost his black hooded sweatshirt. When I saw him walking toward me, away from me with his backpack and hood on, I saw Trayvon Martin — yet another of our Black kids who succumbed to unneeded violence while wearing a black hoodie, carrying a bag of Skittles and a can of iced tea. Still, even though his black hoodie is gone, my son is still a target. And will continue to be, at the rate we’re going.

I knew that he currently faces a 1 in 3 chance of going to jail, prison, being on parole or probation – touching the criminal justice system in some way. But now, he has what seems to be an even greater chance of being shot dead on the street at the hand of black-on-black crime, by overpolicing police officers or stand your ground vigilantes (Read the Justice Policy Institute’s report, Rethinking the Blues).

What will come of tonight’s decision … I think we all know.

Either way, nothing good, I say. The stats, our condition, our perspectives will remain the same. Collectively.