It Wasn’t My Knee, But That Cannot Be Enough
I watched the video of George Floyd’s death in horror.
There was an image that caught my eye and has haunted me ever since.
That image is not the image of George Floyd on the ground with an officer’s knee on his neck. That image is heartbreaking and I will never forget it. But I don’t see myself in that image and the reason is simple: I’m white. I grew up in a predominantly white county, in a predominantly white town, in a middle class home in the middle of the country. None of those are my fault. None of them are to my credit. They just are. And because those realities are what they are, the chances of me ever finding myself in the same position as George Floyd are virtually zero.
That image is not of the officer who was pinning George Floyd to the ground, killing him slowly and brutally. That image is wretched and causes shivers to run down my spine. But I’ve never killed a person. I am not overtly racist. Insert all the comments here about having black friends, black teammates, black members of the congregation that I pastor who I love deeply and appreciate greatly. I would never find myself in the same position as Derek Chauvin, the officer kneeling on George Floyd’s neck, hands in his pocket, casually looking at the camera.
No, the haunting image I cannot get out of my mind, the one I wept as I watched the video and saw myself in, is that of the second police officer. Standing nearby. Rarely looking at George Floyd and Derek Chauvrin. Scanning back and forth, up and down the street. Telling the onlookers that it isn’t that bad. That George Floyd is fine. As I watched the video, I found myself pleading with that man to run over and push Derek Chauvin off of George Floyd. I was vocally begging him to do something. To go stop what was happening.
As George Floyd cried out, “I can’t breathe,” I kept begging that second officer to go give him air.
All the while, I wrestled with the image of myself in him.
Photo credit: Adam Berry/Getty Images
I remember vividly the first time I heard a black person in my life talk about the reality of every day racism. It was 2010 or 2011, either my second or third season coaching track. We were in the bleachers at Blue Springs South High School. I could take you right the spot where we were sitting.
He was a fellow assistant track coach at the high school where I was coaching at the time. Most of the assistant track coaches that I worked alongside at the time were young. At a typical track meet, in between serving, coaching, and assisting our athletes, we would all sit in the team tent or up in the bleachers talking about life, enjoying one another’s company, laughing, goofing around, eating Sour Patch Kids or Swedish Fish. You know, adult stuff.
I don’t remember how we even arrived at the conversation, but at one point he shared that it is a regular occurrence for him to be walking out of Target or the grocery store on the way back to his car, only to pass a white person, make eye contact, and then watch them pull their keys out of their purse/pocket, point the keyless entry fob back toward their vehicle, and double check to be sure that their car is locked. He talked about the shame of those moments. The helplessness of them. The way he would just kind of sigh under his breath, shake his head, cast his eyes downward, and keep walking.
In the moment, I knew two things for sure:
It was incredibly vulnerable for him to share that with us. He was the only black coach on the coaching staff at the time. He was surrounded by white coaches of similar age who had all grown up in midwest towns. It had to have been hard to vocalize that story to us. We stumbled through communicating our sorrow for him having to experience that. But there was another thing I (and I suspect all of us) knew to be true.
I couldn’t relate. No one does that when I walk by them in a parking lot. Sure, I’m small, skinny, and weak looking. He’s big and strong, a former college football player who won a national championship. But I knew in the moment that it had nothing to do with those factors and only to do with the fact that I’m white and he’s black.
Something else happened in my mind too, though. I did what white people do in those moments. I started to rationalize.
“Surely those are coincidence.”
“People aren’t really racist.”
“We’re past that at this point in America.”
“I would never do that, so that means I’m doing my part.”
I said none of those out loud, but I thought them all over the next couple of days as I replayed the conversation in my mind.
What happened that evening in the bleachers of a local Kansas City high school’s track?
My fellow coach and friend said, “I can’t breathe.”
It wasn’t my knee on his neck. I had never looked back and locked my car when I passed him (or anyone else) in a parking lot. And yet I did what that second police officer did. I stood nearby, heard him say it, and just kind of looked back and forth, telling myself and assuring others that maybe it wasn’t as bad as it looked.
Shame on me.
To my friend, who may be reading this, I’m sorry.
You deserved better from me.
Years after that, I had a black friend who was arrested. He spent the night in jail. Was never told why he was in jail. He was released the next day as if nothing out of the ordinary had taken place. He came to our house and with tears in his eyes, shared the story.
This one hit closer to home. I remember being outraged. My wife and I sat and cried with him. We were in disbelief that such a thing could happen right here in our home city.
Our country was in the middle of a string of black men being killed during interactions with the police. We were smack in the middle of football players kneeling during the national anthem and the nation reacting to it.
I remember thinking, “What if he had resisted in any way? What if something had gone differently? What if he had moved his hands wrong or reached for his license wrong or used the wrong vocal tone?” I remember praising God that none of those had been the case. I remember not being able to stop thinking about it for days. I laid awake at night, unable to sleep because I was so shaken by what could have been.
What happened that day at our kitchen table when my friend shared that story, tears in his eyes, talking about the fear, confusion, and injustice of what he experienced all because of an unpaid, outstanding ticket?
My friend said, “I can’t breathe.”
It wasn’t my knee on his neck.
I didn’t toss him in a jail cell or refuse to tell him why he was being held.
I was further along in my interaction with the topic of racism and racial reconciliation in America. I had grown in my willingness to speak publicly about these issues in social media spaces or even from the pulpit at the church I pastor. I had formed intentional relationships with black pastors around Kansas City in order to learn, grow, and get some skin in the game in terms of racial reconciliation.
But what did I actually, tangibly do in response to my friend’s experience?
I basically stood like the second police officer, looking back and forth, trying to avert my eyes from what was being said directly in front of me.
Shame on me.
To my friend, who may be reading this. I’m sorry.
You deserved better from me.
Over the last few years, as moments of gross racial injustice have been caught on camera and displayed in front of the eyes of millions, like many white people, I’ve taken a brief look:
I’ve posted on social media.
I’ve made statements about how I despise racism, how it’s evil and has no place in our world.
I’ve talked about the love of God for all people and necessity of the Church rising up to confront the issue.
I believe to the very core of my being that every human being, as those made in the image of God, deserves the same opportunities to flourish in life. I now recognize, thanks to the patient persistence of the black and brown people in and around my life, that the systems in our nation do not provide those same opportunities to many who live among us. That, in fact, some of the systems that help some in this nation thrive, threaten the very existence of others.
And there I stand.
Casting a gaze toward the problem every once in a while.
Posting a tweet or Facebook status at the same time as everyone else.
Then, to my shame and embarrassment, I move about life as though nothing were happening.
All the while, my black and brown brothers and sisters are continuing to cry out,
“I CAN’T BREATHE.”
If I were watching the video of myself, I would be begging me to do something. To stop standing there. To stop looking away. To take a measure of responsibility for what is happening right before my eyes and all around me.
The first step is to listen. I’ve seen that refrain a number of times over the last few years and in the last few days. By all means, white people, listen. Hear the cries of our brothers and sisters who are calling out in a thousand different ways that they cannot breathe. But at this point, I’ve heard enough to know that the issues exist. I’ve read enough to know about them in detail. Many of us have.
It cannot stop there.
Nothing will change until we do something.
So long as our black and brown brothers and sisters are crying out that they cannot breathe, we cannot stop hearing, seeing, and listening.
And then we need to act.
The time has long since come; action is required. In the same way I longed for that second office to push Derek Chauvin off George Floyd, it will take action to to overturn the systems that have their knee on the neck of those around us. That requires all of us.
Sure, it may not be my knee or your knee, but we can no longer allow ourselves to believe that that is enough.
Do I know what precisely what that means as I sit here and type this? No. But after seeing that video and watching that second officer, I refuse to allow myself to stand by any longer. I’m committing to looking for and engaging in ways to help make tangible difference in my personal life and through the channels in which I have influence. To do otherwise is to be quietly complicit.
So long as black people in this country cannot breathe, white people in this country must join them in helping to create the opportunity for air.
Our black and brown brothers and sisters deserve better from us.
I’m sorry.
Let’s get to work.
