A Single Story

I woke up this morning

I took the dog out for her morning pee,
letting her whirl around the yard chasing
the taunting squirrels in the tree.

I squinted up at the cloudy sky
that looked  so uniformly grayish
until I stood perfectly still to see the
almost subliminal swirls of shape
and shade.

Sometimes you have to stand still
to really see.

I brought the dog in,
made my self a cup of coffee
and opened my computer.

Every social media feed was buzzing with
variations on a single story:

On July 6th, 2016
Philando Castile was driving his car
at 9:00 at night
down a street
in St. Anthony, Minnesota.

Next to him sat his girlfriend
and behind them sat her 4 year old daughter.

A police car came up behind Philando Castile's car,
lights flashing,
and pulled Philando  over for a broken tail light.

These are the facts we absolutely know, facts upon which
everyone agrees.

But then we go into that dim place where facts are harder
to prove.

That place when Philando rolled down his window
and informed the officer that he was carrying a gun
and had a permit.

That place where Philando reached for his wallet,
for his driver's license.

That place where the police officer
made a choice,
or a guess,
or panicked,
and pulled out his gun
and shot Philando four times.

Then the dimness lifts as
Philando's girlfriend pulls out her
cell phone
and begins taking a terrible video
of her bleeding boyfriend slumped sideways in his seat,
blood tie-dyeing his white shirt crimson
while the officer outside keeps
his gun trained on Philando.

The officer outside shaking,
his voice raw and shrill.

In the backseat,
a silent four year old girl,
watching, hearing, absorbing it all.

Four lives intersected that night
over a broken tail light.

One life--Philando's life-- ended that night
over a broken tail light.

Yesterday
the officer with the shaking gun and raw voice
was declared innocent.

As soon as the verdict was announced
angry, protesting voices lifted,
the tears flowed,
Philando's mother captured on camera,
powerful in her everlasting maternal fury
over the death of her son.

And yet this morning the sun rose
and clouds moved
and dogs went out to pee
and coffee got made
and no one knows
how to do more
than join together in anger and pain,
and then slump back home
into the terrible impotent silence
of our leaders.

This is about far more
than police officers
and broken tail lights
and mistaken intention.

This is about guns
and fear of the other
and about honestly answering this question:

If Philando Castile had been white
instead of black,
would he still be alive today?

Not Today

If I were a new glimmer
about to be born
I would not be born today.

I would not choose now
to enter this world
in it's hateful disarray.

Terrorism
in Europe

anti-Korean movements
in Japan

LGBTQ Russian citizens
being tortured and imprisoned

Syrian refugees fleeing
a decimated homeland,

and Donald Trump
peeling back American's skin
to reveal the ugly ignorance and intolerance within.

No.

If I were watching
this
all this
from that unseeable place
where souls await,
I would not be tempted
to join a world
where humans
willingly give up
their better,
kinder,
wiser selves
for the fleeting betrayals
of
power
and pride.




CHM
6/4/2017