The Curious Case of Mumia Abu-Jamal

“Facts,” observed John Adams, “are stubborn things; and whatever may be our wishes, our inclinations, or the dictates of our passion, they cannot alter the state of facts and evidence.”[1]

 

So, here are the facts.

 

On a cold December night in 1981, Police Officer Daniel Faulkner observed a vehicle traveling in the wrong direction on a one-way street and initiated a traffic stop. After surveying the situation, Faulkner requested the assistance of policemen working the wagon detail. He then exited his patrol car and encountered the wayward motorist, William Cook, who had gotten out of his car to engage the officer. A physical altercation ensued and Faulkner subdued his attacker with a flashlight or a nightstick. From across the street, a black male sporting dreadlocks ran toward the scene and fired his gun at Faulkner, striking him in the back. The wounded policeman spun around and, as he fell to the ground, shot his assailant, depositing a bullet into his chest.

 

Undeterred, the dreadlocked gunman sought to finish his task. Standing over Faulkner, the assassin peered into the eyes of a man who was twenty-five and recently married; of a policeman whose performance record contained zero disciplinary actions and numerous commendations; of a determined dreamer who hoped to rise to the position of police commissioner or to attain a law degree and work in the District Attorney’s Office; of a fellow human being who aspired to become a father in the not-so-distant future.[2] The gunman pulled the trigger, firing the fatal bullet. Officer Faulkner laid dead on the street, executed for the crime of performing his duty.

 

The murderer attempted to flee, but only managed to make it to the curb. Police officers arrived on the scene quickly and apprehended the suspect. His name was Mumia Abu-Jamal, formerly known as Wesley Cook. By a stroke of coincidence, Abu-Jamal’s brother happened to be William Cook, the driver who had been involved in the initial confrontation with Officer Faulkner.

The testimony of four witnesses assisted in the reconstruction of the incident. A fifth eyewitness, the aforementioned William Cook, asserted on the scene that he was not involved in the murder. At the trial of his brother, William refused to testify, citing his Fifth Amendment protection against self-incrimination.

 

The murder weapon, a .38-caliber Charter Arms, was registered to Abu-Jamal. The bullet removed from Abu-Jamal’s body was traced back to Officer Faulkner’s service weapon. Both guns were discovered and retrieved at the scene of the crime.

 

After being transported to the hospital to treat his gunshot wound, Abu-Jamal allegedly stated: “I shot the motherfucker and I hope the motherfucker dies.”[3] The confession was overheard and recorded by Priscilla Durham, a security guard who worked at the hospital.

 

These are the facts, and they are indeed stubborn things.

 

Nevertheless, these truths have been submerged in a sea of obfuscation as the events of 9 December 1981 recede into the abyss of the past. Floating along in this body of water is Mumia Abu-Jamal, who has emerged as the vessel that represents all that is wrong with the American system of justice for both his advocates and his opponents. Over the course of thirty-two years, Mr. Abu-Jamal and his supporters have transformed the case from a local homicide of a police officer into an international referendum on the persistence of racism in American jurisprudence. They have wielded America’s history of racial intolerance as a rhetorical shield to fend off the compelling proof of Abu-Jamal’s culpability. They have encouraged others to view the case with an historical telescope rather than a microscope, which has engendered a form of myopia in which broad historical context supersedes even the most basic knowledge of the crime.

 

Abu-Jamal’s legal team has marshaled an impressive stable of wealthy celebrities and influential academics to support his cause. These patrons have afforded Abu-Jamal the credibility and, more importantly, the finances to construct a platform upon which he can rail against the perceived shortcomings of America’s justice system, whose protections have enabled Abu-Jamal to make his case for innocence in appellate proceedings for three decades, to no avail; whose caution led to the overturning of Abu-Jamal’s death sentence on the grounds that jurors might have been confused about the instructions that they received before commencing deliberations during the penalty phase of the trial; and whose restrictions have not silenced Abu-Jamal’s voice during his incarceration. In short, Mumia Abu Jamal’s “persecution” is mythic and risible.    

 

Consider, for example, the claim that Mumia was not granted a fair trial. A reasoned analysis of the trial transcript reveals that the biggest impediment to Abu-Jamal's obtainment of an impartial hearing was Mumia Abu-Jamal himself. The defendant created incessant disruptions throughout the court proceedings; for instance, he spent a considerable amount of time demanding that John Africa, the founder of the radical group MOVE, represent him. Africa possessed little in the way of formal education, much less any knowledge of the intricacies of American law. In this instance (and in quite a few others) the judge, Albert Sabo, was forced to save Abu-Jamal from himself by refusing his motion and instead appointing a public defender of Mumia's choosing to serve as secondary counsel. The judge’s ruling was based purely on the application of legal precedent and did not preclude Africa from offering the defendant advice and counsel during the trial.

 

Moreover, the transcript is littered with instances when Mumia insulted Judge Sabo and repeatedly revisited issues on which Sabo had already ruled, ranting like a petulant child when he did not get his way. The defendant did not seem to care that his disrespectful behavior toward the judge might have reflected a general disregard for officers of the law and the law itself, which likely influenced the jury. In the end, if Abu-Jamal’s sympathizers would like to proclaim that Mr. Abu-Jamal's trial was a circus, they would be remiss if they did not include the identity of the ringmaster when formulating their argument.

 

In spite of the myriad petitions that Abu-Jamal’s defense team has offered in court, no new trial is forthcoming. The exculpatory conspiracy theories, which have relied on the testimonies and recollections of petty criminals and serial prevaricators, have only exposed the desperation to which Abu-Jamal’s lawyers will resort to free their client from his rightful sentence. With his appeals finally exhausted, Mumia Abu-Jamal will spend the rest of his life behind bars.

 

Undoubtedly, there will remain individuals unconvinced of Mumia’s guilt who will regard the prisoner as a martyr to American racism. They will point to our nation’s past as proof of a present injustice. Mumia Abu-Jamal’s supporters would be well-advised, nonetheless, to keep in mind that the light of history can blind just as easily as it can illuminate. Otherwise, they will continue to fall for the cynical sleight-of-hand that Abu-Jamal has employed to conceal the truth, which has been determined by a jury and reaffirmed after numerous appellate proceedings: Mumia Abu-Jamal murdered Daniel Faulkner on December 9, 1981. Case closed.

 

 

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[1] http://www.quotationspage.com/quote/3235.html

[2] This general sketch of Officer Faulkner was gleaned from the following book: Faulkner, Maureen and Smerconish, Michael, Murdered by Mumia (Guilford, CT: Lyons Press, 2008).

[3] Marc Kaufman, “Abu-Jamal Said He Shot Officer, Two Tell Trial,” Philadelphia Inquirer, June 15, 1982.

Johnny Manziel and the Fraud of Collegiate Amateurism

One of the more frustrating aspects of the Football Bowl Subdivision (formerly known as Division I) system has been the extent to which subjectivity factors into the determination of the best teams in the nation. Unfortunately, such a shortcoming seems inevitable in a game as physically demanding and as ubiquitous as college football. One could not reasonably expect student-athletes to endure a twelve or thirteen game season and then compete in a March Madness-style tournament (which would add another six games to the schedule for the eventual champion and runner-up), all the while playing at an optimum level. Therefore, subjective comparison will remain a fixture of the college football ranking system for the foreseeable future.  

In spite of this subjective streak in college football, few aficionados and analysts would deny that Johnny Manziel was the best player in the nation when the dust settled on the 2012 season. Manziel, a redshirt freshman who emerged from third-string obscurity to lead the Texas A&M Aggies to an 11-2 record, won the Heisman Trophy after a stellar campaign that was punctuated by a stunning win over the vaunted Alabama Crimson Tide in Tuscaloosa. Manziel’s meteoric rise mirrored the stunning progress of the Texas A&M program, which in the span of one year morphed from a middling Big 12 team into a Southeastern Conference powerhouse. While the Aggies’ reversal of fortune was due in no small measure to the outstanding coaching of offensive wunderkind Kevin Sumlin, the emergence of Manziel stands as the primary reason for Texas A&M’s football renaissance.

Texas A&M’s victorious season on the gridiron was reflected in the program’s financial ledger. By the time the 2012 season ended, the Aggies had raked in nearly $120 million.[1] For his troubles, Coach Sumlin earned a healthy raise that bumped his annual compensation to $3.1 million.[2] As for the players who were primarily responsible for turning the dream season into a reality, well, they got nothing. Nothing for dedicating themselves year-round to the task of sculpting their physiques in order to withstand the physical punishment of a football game. Nothing for waking up in the early morning for meetings and tape study. Nothing for attending interminable practices and mandatory study sessions. Nothing for ensuring that their broken bodies would be mended in time for the next game by visiting the training room. Nothing for an 11-2 season and a Cotton Bowl victory. Nothing for wonderfully representing Texas A&M University under a spotlight that outshines the one under which the university’s highly-paid administrators labor.

 Nothing.

Well, not really nothing. A free education is certainly something. So is access to an expansive and influential booster network that could facilitate an outgoing player’s quest for employment. Moreover, one cannot adequately valuate the privilege of playing in college football’s best conference in front of hundreds of thousands of rabid fans. So the players received some compensation.

However, some compensation does not equate to adequate compensation, especially in the case of Johnny Manziel. According to one estimate, Manziel’s Heisman season produced $37 million in media exposure revenue for Texas A&M.[3] This figure does not include the profits from the university’s merchandising operation, which included the sale of Manziel jerseys (er, #2 jerseys- gee, I wonder why that number is popular?). Rather than receiving a reward for his sensational season, Manziel has instead been saddled with a heavy burden: he has become the “beneficiary” of an insane level of media attention.

The ESPN network, which played a significant role in cultivating the “Johnny Football” ethos, now seeks to exploit the new sports hero whose pedestal it created. Gone are the days when Manziel could commit the common college student sins of oversleeping, underage drinking, and shortsighted tweeting under the cloak of anonymity. Now every one of Manziel’s actions is scrutinized and inanely “debated” on ESPN shows like "First Take." Articles are written on ESPN’s website about the “questions” with which NFL evaluators are contending as they analyze the “controversies” that surround the quarterback.[4] The most recent scandal involves an NCAA investigation of an accusation that Manziel was paid in exchange for autographing memorabilia. According to ESPN Sports Business reporter Darren Rovell, if the NCAA substantiates the allegation it could deem the quarterback ineligible for the infraction of “accepting money for promoting or advertising the commercial sale of a product or service.”[5]

One can safely bet that ESPN’s coverage of this imbroglio will avoid the touchy issue of the NCAA’s obvious hypocrisy on this front since the network just secured a twelve-year television contract for the BCS playoffs (set to begin in 2014) for the princely sum of $500 million per season.[6] After all, it’s uncouth to attack a business partner. If ESPN did revert to a journalistic approach in covering this investigation, perhaps its reporters would ask the NCAA why the organization continues to enforce the principle of amateurism on its student-athletes while the other members of the college football landscape profit like bandits. Why are the student-athletes compelled to play for free, for “love of the game," when the game has been commercialized by the NCAA and its member institutions? Even the sacrosanct bowl games have been adulterated by the presence of corporate sponsors (Discover Orange Bowl, Rose Bowl Game presented by Vizio). While coaches drift from one job to the next in search of the highest payday and athletic directors move their universities from one conference to another in search of the highest television rights payout, college student-athletes are left twisting in the wind. Their destinies are shaped and contorted by the influence of money, but the foolish and self-serving enforcement of the amateur ideal prevents them from accessing the wealth that they create.

Alas, no one should expect the network, or any sports “journalist," to ask these questions. Everyone is too invested in the narrative of a star quarterback who could not handle the pressures of fame, who selfishly put himself ahead of the team by accepting money. As reporters myopically focus on Manziel, a bigger scandal remains unexplored: namely, the absurdity of the college football business model, which generates hundreds of millions of dollars for universities without distributing any of the spoils to the laborers. And that is just an objective fact.      

 

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[1] http://collegesportsblog.dallasnews.com/2013/05/texas-am-one-of-13-schools-that-made-100-million-revenue-in-2012.html/

[2] http://www.cbssports.com/collegefootball/blog/eye-on-college-football/21786912/kevin-sumlin-gets-extension-salary-raise-to-31-million

[3] http://www.thebatt.com/a-m-football-season-manziel-generate-37-million-in-media-exposure-revenue-1.2973571#.UgMGoxXD_IV

[4] http://espn.go.com/nfl/story/_/id/9542030/nfl-eye-johnny-manziel-wrong-reasons

[5] http://espn.go.com/espn/otl/story/_/id/9537999/otl-ncaa-investigating-johnny-manziel-profiting-autographs

[6] http://collegefootballtalk.nbcsports.com/2012/11/21/espn-lands-12-year-agreement-to-televise-playoffs-bcs-bowls/

An Open Letter to Dad on Father’s Day

Dear Dad,

For as long as I can remember, I have tried to emulate you. Perhaps my motivation resides in the fact that, as your namesake, I consider it my duty to match your achievements, or perhaps I am driven by the same ambition that influences all sons who love their fathers. Whatever the origin, I have devoted myself to emerging from your large shadow to establish an impressive reputation and a level of success that would enable you to be proud of me. However, in recent years I have wondered whether I am up to this challenge.

After all, you have always been an imposing presence in my life. I could never match your physical stature, but it never stopped me from making an honest attempt. For years, I religiously committed myself to a weightlifting program in the hope that I could look like you, a muscular fellow with whom one should not trifle. I never quite accomplished the goal, which frustrated me. I wanted to play football like you; I had to settle for rugby.      

Growing up in a neighborhood in which my peers seemed fixated on creating an ethos of “toughness”, you instructed me to appreciate the work of the pen and shun the destructive power of the punch. You taught me how to read and write and instilled in me an enduring love of knowledge. You made incredible financial sacrifices to ensure that money would never emerge as an obstacle in my quest to attend the best schools. Often, you would take on several odd jobs to make ends meet; you officiated track meets, operated the scoreboard at basketball games, and conducted SAT tutoring sessions. I’m sure you loathed these endless workdays, but you assumed the responsibility anyway in order to improve the lives of your children.

Your altruism has not been confined to the immediate family. You have offered free SAT instruction to high school students in the neighborhood for years. Also, you continue to coach CYO baseball, even though all of your children have grown up and moved on from the program. You are what the Jesuits would describe as a “man for others.” Moreover, you are not content to express your Catholicism by simply attending weekly Church services; you live your faith.

I guess I should not be surprised by these displays of selflessness from a man who selected education as his profession. Over the course of a career that has spanned four decades, you have molded the malleable minds of high school students. Whether you are deciphering for your pupils the nuances of English grammar or you are explaining iambic pentameter to teenagers encountering Shakespeare for the first time, you are always in command of the material and work very hard to relate your lessons to a younger generation. Furthermore, your commitment to your school extends beyond the classroom. For thirty years, you have coached football, imparting your wisdom to star running backs and special teamers alike.    

As anyone can see, there is so much to admire about you, Dad. On some level, my quest to live up to your legacy influenced my decision to become a teacher. Unfortunately, things did not work out very well on this front. I remember walking through the snow with you on the way to Mass one Sunday evening, crushed by the knowledge that I was about to lose my job and burdened by the weight of failure. I informed you of my fate and anticipated a harsh condemnation. Instead, you told me that everything would be okay. That is what I love most about you, Dad: when I fell down, you always greeted me with an extended hand rather than a shaking fist. You would rebuke me not for failing, but for failing to try.

Recently, I was presented with an opportunity to watch you in action as you taught a class. I observed from outside the door as you controlled the room and executed your lesson plan. The confidence you exuded reflected your strong grasp of the subject matter, which caused your students to remain respectful and attentive throughout the period. You truly are a master of your craft. As I observed you, an important realization dawned on me. It is something every son who reveres his father must discover at some point: while I should continue striving to be like you, I should cease trying to be you.

So, in lieu of a new tie or a box of golf balls, on this Father’s Day I would like to offer you a simple “thank you”. Thank you, Dad, for everything you have done for me. And even though I know I must discover my own path as I navigate through life, thank you for pointing me in the right direction.  


Love,
Tim


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Shackled by a Liberal Arts Education

A few months ago, an acquaintance of mine wandered into the beer distributor where I am employed and we engaged in some idle chatter. He talked at some length about his job as an electrician and, at some point during the course of the conversation, directed a question at me that I often field from people who are aware of my academic credentials: why am I working at a beer distributor? After I offered him the rehearsed answer I often supply for this type of query, that I tried teaching and didn’t like it and am now struggling to find another profession, the inquisitive electrician posed a follow-up: what was my major? After I told him that I double majored in English Literature and History, he offered a devastating summation: “So you basically did nothing.” He spoke not maliciously but rather matter-of-factly, which did nothing to dull the blade of the rhetorical sword he plunged into my chest. My electrician pal’s dismissive comments about my academic choices left me in a reflective mood, a state with which I have grown quite familiar.

Why did I opt to major in English and History? What was I thinking? Was I thinking? As I tried to recall my thought process when I wrestled with this pivotal decision, my mind gradually drifted back to memories from my time at the University of Pennsylvania.

I arrived at Penn a diffident teenager. I had excelled as a student in high school, but I was entering a much different arena. My peers emerged as some of our nation’s most elite academic talent and emanated from some of the most prestigious secondary schools in the world. Who the heck was I to be included among such impressive company? True, my grades in high school were laudable, but my transcript lacked the litany of AP courses that so many incoming Penn freshmen had taken. Yes, I had fashioned myself into a decent wrestler and was honored as a captain of my team, but in the end I was just an unexceptional wrestler on a middling squad in an average league. Upon introspection, I viewed myself as an ambitious overachiever with a mediocre core that would be exposed once I flew too close to the sun.

 My first experience in the new world I had entered arrived quite quickly. After my three roommates and I had settled into our new quarters, we conversed for a bit in an effort to become more familiar with one another. After a time, our banter shifted onto foreign terrain as my three new friends began comparing SAT scores. Back home, I was used to hearing my friends argue inanely over who was the toughest guy in the neighborhood, and I guess my roommates’ game served a similar purpose. It was like a bizarro alpha male contest, one in which I stood no chance of winning. I had indeed moved into a new environment, one in which I feared I would be chewed up and regurgitated quickly.

Aside from my insecurity, I was struggling with an existential crisis as I embarked on my college career. I had no idea what I wanted to study and didn’t possess a plan for my post-collegiate days. In retrospect, I should have placed a stronger premium on solving the latter dilemma. Instead, I agonized over the selection of a major for three academic terms. At some point after my freshman year, I even briefly considered taking a leave from school to join the Marine Corps.

Ultimately, I abandoned the military path because I did not want to waste the precious opportunity I had been given. After all, an Ivy League diploma could become a game changer for my family. I wanted so badly to reward my parents for all of the financial sacrifices they made on my behalf. They deserved a son who finished this journey, no matter how arduous it might seem.

Therefore, I returned to school for my sophomore year and heeded the advice of my academic advisor, who offered simple, yet sage, advice. He told me to consider the classes that most piqued my interest during my freshman year as I decided the course I would pursue for my future studies. After a brief flirtation with Psychology, I decided on History and English Literature.

I chose English Literature in part because I knew it would appease my father, who was naturally concerned about my future. He was an English teacher who had majored in the subject during his undergraduate term and who believed, as did I, that a B.A. in English Literature could serve as a solid bridge to law school or to the professional world. Also, I had taken a couple of English courses and thoroughly enjoyed them. I was exposed to some excellent material that expanded my knowledge of the world and the courses enabled me to write multiple essays, which I viewed as one of my strengths.

Whereas my decision to major in English was rooted in utility, my selection of History derived from my passion for the discipline. I aced an Early American History class that was taught by a Pulitzer Prize-winning historian and my T.A. for the course seemed genuinely interested in the insights I offered during the Friday morning recitations. Moreover, I loved the critical approach taken by my History professors. These were not classes in which students were inundated with an avalanche of historical facts; these were classes that challenged accepted narratives and humanized historical figures who are too often deified through the magic of nostalgia and a Whiggish approach to studying the past.

In order to avoid prevarication, I will also disclose that I selected these subjects because I thought they offered the surest path to success while also posing a manageable academic challenge. Of course, my sense of inferiority partially inhibited me from seeking out a more rigorous program. However, my tenuous financial situation played a more significant role in the process. By the spring semester of my Junior year, I had to leave my work-study job to find something more lucrative. I landed at a restaurant on campus and worked most of the weekend, leaving precious little time for studying and socializing. I worked thirty to forty hours per week in order to clear my tuition balance, which posed a major obstacle throughout my college tenure.

A new job was not the only time-consuming challenge I accepted during that spring term. I applied for and was accepted into the History Honors Program. Over the course of three semesters, I conducted research and composed a thesis. My quest for primary source material required me to make frequent, day-long trips to an archives in Center City. Furthermore, the writing process devolved into a painful exercise of reconceptualization and revision. I barely finished the project on time, but I turned in an acceptable thesis.

The complicated juggling act in which I was engaged left me with little occasion to ponder my long-term prospects in a serious manner. I was focused on surviving the present, not thriving in the future. Besides, I knew that my liberal arts education had showered me with invaluable assets that would attract any potential employer. As I traversed through my program of studies, I cultivated my critical analysis skills and honed my writing and speaking abilities. Additionally, I was exposed to diverse viewpoints, which engendered in me a more nuanced understanding of the world. I can honestly say that I evolved from an anxious teen into a confident and well-rounded man during my college years.

Unfortunately, my myopic and relentless focus on the present negatively impacted my future, which was exacerbated by a horrific economic recession that greeted me upon graduation. My liberal arts education in general and my Penn experience in particular had inculcated in me a sense that I was capable of greatness. Yet, without practical training or a well-established network, this notion dissolves into a mere delusion of grandeur. Undoubtedly, I possess an extensive stable of intangible skills, but I wonder whether I can claim any practical skills. I do know, though, that my college experience has bequeathed to me a severe case of cognitive dissonance: while I am sure I can do anything, I fear I am able to do nothing.

Today’s economy demands an educated workforce, particularly in the so-called STEM fields (science, technology, engineering, and mathematics). While I remain steadfast in my belief in the value of a liberal arts education, I know that I should have developed a long term plan when I was an undergraduate. I should have asked myself how I could market the skills with which my college education endowed me and I should have committed myself to building networks. I should have realized that thousands of people possess a similar educational background and we are all battling over increasingly limited opportunities; perhaps a few business classes would have better prepared me for the brutal reality of a free-market economy governed by the forces of supply and demand.

Now I am trapped, consigned to a life that struggles to find meaning. I will not find it at the beer distributor, just as I was unable to find a proper retort to the inquisitive and judgmental electrician. I wish I could have told him of all of the life lessons I learned from literature, or of my solid understanding of our nation’s history. I wish I could have told him that my studies taught me how to think independently, immunizing me from the fear mongering that frequently emanates from manipulative politicians and ratings-crazed media members. Instead, I chose to say nothing. I was lost in thought, a lasting gift of my liberal arts education.  

 

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Reclaiming Memorial Day

Every year, Americans reserve the final Monday of May to honor the servicemen and servicewomen who lost their lives in defense of the United States. Considering its solemn purpose, this holiday, which tradition has christened Memorial Day, ostensibly ought to be observed rather than celebrated. However, Memorial Day has morphed into an extended weekend of revelry. Rather than reflect on the tremendous sacrifice of our fallen soldiers, we take advantage of the holiday to shop, barbecue, imbibe a few adult beverages, head to the Jersey Shore, and ring in the unofficial commencement of summer. 

Honestly, who can blame anyone for engaging in this seemingly callous behavior? Due to its placement on the calendar, the Memorial Day Weekend, in tandem with Labor Day Weekend, serves as an ideal bookend for the summer season. Moreover, three-day weekends do not come along often, particularly during periods when Mother Nature usually delivers agreeable weather. We should exploit the rare opportunity to deviate from the monotonous routine that the work schedule imposes on us to relax and enjoy the wonderful gift of life.   

Nevertheless, our misappropriation of Memorial Day betrays a disconcerting reality; namely, our nation’s growing distance from the harsh realities of war. According to a New York Times piece, “at any given time in the past decade, less than 1 percent of the American population has been on active military duty, compared with 9 percent of Americans who were in uniform in World War II.”[1] This fact would be most welcome if it corresponded with a similar decline in the number of military commitments in which America is engaged. Unfortunately, September 11^th subverted any opportunity for an extended period of peace; the devastating attacks of that day engendered a declaration of war against terrorism, a conflict in Afghanistan, and a misadventure in Iraq. Our troops have been as active as ever, yet there are fewer of them available to answer Uncle Sam’s call. Therefore, our government has resorted to multiple deployments in the last decade to meet the troop deficit; in effect, we have asked the one percent continually to put their lives on the line while demanding nothing of the rest of the country, which has been too distracted by the goings-on at the Kardashian home or the melodrama amongst the Real Housewives of (fill in the blank) to comprehend the depth of the sacrifice we have demanded of our soldiers.

Although a true observation of the day would afford us the chance to appreciate war’s disastrous ramifications, the prevailing treatment of Memorial Day squanders this possibility. Now, I am not asking everyone to abandon their vacation plans or to cancel the barbecue. Such requests would be unreasonable. Yet it is not unreasonable to suggest that perhaps we all devote a few minutes of our holiday to consider the carnage that war inflicts on the human body and the toll it takes on the human soul. Read a soldier’s account of his combat experiences. Even better, listen to the mother’s or brother’s recollections of his/her time in the field. But don’t just listen- really listen. And understand. Understand the fear, the chaos, the confusion, and the barbarism that define the battlefield experience for so many veterans. Understand that numerous Marines fighting the Japanese in the Pacific Theater would remove body parts from their vanquished foes and keep them as souvenirs. Understand that many soldiers deployed to Vietnam had to constantly decide whether a Vietnamese civilian was truly a noncombatant and not a Viet Cong guerilla fighter, with the wrong decision leading to their demise or to the death of an innocent person. Understand that the soldiers we have deployed (and redeployed) to Iraq and Afghanistan have returned with an alarmingly high rate of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). Understand the consequences of war.

On the occasion of this Memorial Day, I will remember the lives that were lost and the lives that were indelibly altered in the course of our nation’s numerous military engagements. I will reminisce about my grandfather, who hid the ugly nature of his military experiences behind a wall of funny war stories, only to have the horrors seep out in the quiet darkness of night. Furthermore, I will recall the sad fate of my uncle, who left for Vietnam and whose soul got lost in the country’s dense and disorienting jungles.

Finally, I will reflect on the words of Vietnam veteran and author Tim O’Brien: “Now, war ended, all I am left with are simple, unprofound scraps of truths […] Can the foot soldier teach anything important about war, merely for having been there? I think not. He can tell war stories.”[2] Perhaps you cannot teach us anything, Mr. O’Brien. But if we are wise, we will listen anyway. And perhaps we will be more discerning when deciding whether to send our young men and women into combat. 

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[1] Sabrina Tavernise, “As Fewer Americans Serve, Growing Gap Is Found Between Civilians and Military,” The New York Times, 24 November 2011, A22.

[2] Tim O’Brien, If I Die in a Combat Zone, Box Me Up and Ship Me Home (New York: Broadway Books, 1975), 23.

A Postcard from “Post-Racial” America, Vol. 1: The Death of Trayvon Martin

I am an invisible man. No, I am not a spook like those who haunted Edgar Allan Poe; nor am I one of your Hollywood-movie ectoplasms. I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids- and I might even be said to possess a mind. I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me. Like the bodiless heads you see sometimes in circus sideshows, it is as though I have been surrounded by mirrors of hard, distorting glass. When they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination- indeed, everything and anything except me.  

-Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man

 

An ominous rainfall descended upon the city of Sanford, Florida, on the evening of February 26, 2012. The precipitation, however, did not dissuade Trayvon Martin from walking to a nearby 7-11 to satisfy a sugar craving. Martin, a seventeen-year-old African American, was visiting the Orlando suburb with his father, Tracy; they were in town to see the elder Martin’s fiancée. Around 7 P.M., Trayvon emerged from the convenience store and, armed with a package of Skittles and an Arizona Iced Tea, commenced his short return journey to the home of his father’s future bride.

George Zimmerman, a twenty-eight-year-old resident of Sanford, also sought sustenance when he departed from his home and hopped into his car on the evening of February 26. According to an interview with Fox News’ Sean Hannity, Zimmerman intended to drive to Target to purchase groceries.[1] Although Zimmerman was running a personal errand, he was ever-mindful of his duties as a volunteer neighborhood watchman. The area of Sanford in which he lived had experienced eight burglaries in the previous fourteen months; additionally, “Twin Lakes residents said dozens of reports of attempted break-ins and would be burglars casing homes had created an atmosphere of growing fear in the neighborhood.”[2] Therefore, Zimmerman did not hesitate to dial 911 when, in the course of his travels, he witnessed a meandering black teenager engaged in seemingly strange behavior. It was a scene he had witnessed before; over the past year, Zimmerman had registered five calls to 911 to report suspicious activity involving black males.[3]

“Hey, we’ve had some break-ins in my neighborhood and there’s a real suspicious guy,” Zimmerman intoned to the 911 operator. “This guy looks like he’s up to no good, or he’s on drugs or something.”[4] When the teenager began to run, Zimmerman pursued him despite the 911 operator’s caution to avoid such action. Once he lost sight of his target, Zimmerman endeavored to return to his vehicle to await the arrival of the police. Before he could arrive at his car, though, the neighborhood watchman was intercepted by the suspicious teen and, after a physical struggle, Zimmerman shot the young man once in the chest.

Since a bullet from George Zimmerman’s gun has forever silenced Trayvon Martin, we do not have access to his mindset during his brief encounter with Zimmerman. However, one might reasonably infer from his actions that the teen was perturbed by the man in the car who was tailing him. Understandably, he ran. Understandably, he initiated a physical confrontation when the man exited his vehicle to continue the pursuit. Without a doubt, Martin’s actions are perfectly justifiable in the context of self-defense.

Yet I am not interested in trying to justify the actions of Trayvon Martin on the night of his demise; nor do I intend to conduct a trial-by-blog of George Zimmerman. Rather, I would like to focus squarely on Zimmerman’s decision-making process on the fateful evening of February 26. Specifically, I would like to explore why Zimmerman deemed Martin suspect in the first place, for it exposes a dangerous racial dynamic that stubbornly continues to exist in American society.

According to a Reuters article, Zimmerman grew quite concerned about the rash of burglaries in his community, a number of which were committed by black males. Earlier in the month, Zimmerman had spotted a serial thief named Emmanuel Burgess “peering into the windows of a neighbor’s empty home.”[5] A few days later, a resident’s home was burglarized and Burgess was arrested as the culprit.[6] Consequently, the ambitious neighborhood watchman remained on heightened alert and reported any untoward behavior to the police. When he spotted Trayvon walking in the rain, Zimmerman had already rendered his judgment: this young man was up to no good. “These assholes, they always get away,” he lamented to the 911 dispatcher who fielded his call. Trayvon was already guilty in Zimmerman’s estimation, but why? Because he was wearing a hoodie? Because he was walking outside during a rainstorm? Because he was a teenager? Because he was black?

Zimmerman might not admit it, but Trayvon’s race played a significant role in the watchman’s decision to pursue the teen and call the police. Zimmerman’s perception of Trayvon and his behavior was informed by the actions of Burgess and the few other African American males who were engaged in illicit activities in Sanford. Sadly, Zimmerman’s rationale serves as a microcosm of a much larger problem: in the minds of a disconcerting number of American citizens, the entire African American race is defined by the actions of a few. An erroneous link has been established between blackness and criminality, as if the act of being black renders one more likely to commit crime. In a sense, we cannot blame Zimmerman for his error in judgment, for he has been conditioned to think in this fallacious way. If you disagree, simply watch a local newscast in a racially diverse media market. These local news reports fixate on crimes committed by minorities and unintentionally (at least one hopes) echo an ancient fear spouted by Southern racists at the conclusion of the Civil War: that black men, once freed from the chains of slavery, would pose an existential threat to civil society. It’s a fear that has generally dominated the white man’s perception of his black brother and has stunted the social and racial progress of our nation. Moreover, it is a fear that exposes the absurdity of the notion that America has entered a “post-racial” era.

We see what we want to see. And when George Zimmerman observed Trayvon walking in the rain, he saw a deviant. He saw Emmanuel Burgess. Thus began the chain of events that ended with Trayvon Martin lying on the ground, dead of a gunshot wound.

We ought to ask ourselves why Trayvon and other African Americans are not accorded the same privilege of individuality we extend to others. After all, I'm sure happy that people in my neighborhood don't base their impressions of me on the actions of some of the white guys my age who deal drugs, engage in fights, slash tires, and generally act like jackasses. Why am I able to transcend the actions of the few bad people in my neighborhood who share nothing in common with me except age and race while Trayvon Martin was forced to wear the actions of Emmanuel Burgess like an albatross?

If we truly seek to create a “post-racial” American utopia, we have much more work to do. Most importantly, we must begin to narrow the communication gap that exists between the white and black races. In order to accomplish such a feat, we must stop wilfully wallowing in ignorance and truly confront our troubled racial history (more on this topic in a future post). We must cease fearfully erecting fences and instead begin fearlessly building bridges. We must reject fear and embrace empathy. Above all, we must begin to truly see African Americans- as individuals, not as one menacing, monolithic mass. These actions might enable us to understand one another better and truly start healing the racial scars that have disfigured our nation.    

 
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[1] “Exclusive: George Zimmerman breaks silence on ‘Hannity’,” Fox News. Accessed 18 May 2013.   http://www.foxnews.com/on-air/hannity/2012/07/18/exclusive-george-zimmerman-breaks-silence-hannity?page=1.

 

[2] Chris Francescani, “George Zimmerman: Prelude to a shooting,” Reuters, 25 April 2012. http://www.reuters.com/article/2012/04/25/us-usa-florida-shooting-zimmerman-idUSBRE83O18H20120425

 

[3] Matthew DeLuca, “George Zimmerman’s History of 911 Calls: A Complete Log,” The Daily Beast, 22 March 2012. http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2012/03/22/george-zimmerman-s-history-of-911-calls-a-complete-log.html

 

[4] The audio of George Zimmerman’s February 26th 911 call can be accessed here: http://www.orlandosentinel.com/videogallery/68871920/News/George-Zimmerman-911-call-reporting-Trayvon-Martin

[5] Francescani, “George Zimmerman: Prelude to a shooting.”

[6] Ibid.

Dispatch from the New Lost Generation

Confession: I am a college graduate. Five years ago this May I graduated magna cum laude from the University of Pennsylvania. Now you might surmise from the previous sentence that I have parlayed my opportunity to study at a world-class institution like Penn into admission to a prestigious professional or graduate school. Or maybe I took my talents to Wall Street, where I am currently earning an exorbitant salary toiling for a megabank like Goldman Sachs or UBS. Perhaps I spent a few years traveling the world and am now at work composing the next great American novel. At any rate, you imagine, I have only just begun to turn my version of the American Dream into a beautiful reality. 

I wish I could say that I lived up to these hypothetical expectations; alas, I could not. 

It turns out that I reached the pinnacle of my life’s achievement when I arrived at the top of the stage to receive my college diploma (actually, it was a piece of paper that informed me my diploma would be in the mail in a few months). Since that time, my life has been marked by a series of failures. Immediately after college, I entered the education profession for want of a better option and, for the lesser part of two years, tried to forge an identity as a teacher in the crucible of a high school classroom. Although I possessed a comfortable level of knowledge about the subjects which I taught, I was never able to master the complicated art of classroom management. Needless to say, it was not long before some of my students were able to take advantage of my weaknesses as an educator and compromise my lessons. I abandoned my teaching career embittered, depressed, and humiliated. 

Let’s fast forward to the present. I am currently working at a small beer distributor, where I employ the intellectual skills I cultivated at an Ivy League institution to assist me in determining the best way to lower a keg of Pabst to the bottom of a deep basement. I can state candidly that I am no closer to finding, let alone navigating, my life’s path than I was when I began my course of studies at that august institution in University City nine years ago. Worse, I can no longer ward off the sinking feeling that my liberal arts degree has been rendered useless in an increasingly utilitarian job market. I wonder if the only benefit I have attained from my education is the ability to articulate more clearly just how lost I truly am.    

Mine is but one of many stories of desperation and struggle to emerge from a group which some have christened the new “Lost Generation,” whose membership includes anyone who was cursed with the misfortune of graduating in the midst of the Great Recession. Some, like me, continue to seek the elusive compass that will provide them with a direction in life. With a dearth of available jobs, there is little opportunity to experiment until we find our niche. Others know exactly what they want to do and possess the necessary educational credentials, but cannot overcome the anemic economy. Bartenders who have graduated from law school and passed the bar exam practice the art of mixology rather than law; waiters and waitresses with nursing degrees wait tables instead of waiting on patients; store clerks with education degrees stock the shelves rather than steer our children toward a better future.    

We are a generation adrift and astray. We have so much to offer to the world, but the world seems to lack the resources to exploit our potential. Rather than serving as keys which we can use to open the doors of opportunity, our diplomas and advanced degrees have become burdensome albatrosses that only remind us of our inability to find success. 

Perhaps as the economy improves so will our fortune. Or maybe we will be discarded in favor of more recent college graduates, in which case we can adopt a new appellation: the Forgotten Generation.    

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