by Gwen Carr
This Stops Today
This Stops Today
Eric Garner’s Mother Seeks Justice
after Losing Her Son
Gwen Carr
with Dave Smitherman
ROWMAN & LITTLEFIELD
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British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Carr, Gwen, author. | Smitherman, Dave, co-author.
Title: This stops today : Eric Garner’s mother seeks justice after losing her son / Gwen Carr with Dave Smitherman.
Description: Lanham : Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc., [2018] | Includes bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018011674 (print) | LCCN 2018033576 (ebook) | ISBN 9781538109816 (electronic) | ISBN 9781538109809 (cloth : alk. paper)
Subjects: LCSH: Carr, Gwen. | Mothers—New York (State)—New York— Biography. | Police brutality—New York (State)—New York. | Police misconduct—
New York (State)—New York. | Social justice—New York (State)—New York. Classification: LCC HQ759 (ebook) | LCC HQ759 .C289 2018 (print) | DDC 306.874/3—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018011674
The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.
Printed in the United States of America
Every time you see me, you want to harass me, you want to stop me. I’m so sick of it. I’m minding my business, officer. I’m minding my business. Please just leave me alone. I told you the last time, please just leave me alone. I did not do anything. . . . Please, please don’t touch me. Do not touch me. . . . I can’t breathe!
— Eric Garner
In Memory of Erica Garner
Erica, you are my son’s first child, my first grandchild. I just can’t come to grips with you being gone so soon. It seems you were here but a day, and now you’ve gone away. But your fight for your dad will live on in me, and so will my love for you and yours.
Mrs. Carr’s incredible strength in the face of tragedy is monumental and awe inspiring. Though there are dark days, she continues to fight for the rights of victims everywhere. She was thrust into action because she had to; she did it for Eric. The fight for justice continues.
—Viola Davis and Julius Tennon,
coproducers of the TV docuseries Two Sides
Contents
Foreword by Hillary Rodham Clinton
Chapter 1South Brooklyn
Chapter 2Finding Strength
Chapter 3My Son Can’t Breathe
Chapter 4The Chokehold
Chapter 5Rallying Cry
Chapter 6The Mothers of the Movement
Chapter 7The Royal Treatment
Chapter 8Putting Hope in Hillary
Chapter 9Mother to Mother
Chapter 10The Unplanned Activist
A Letter to My Son
In Deepest and Loving Memories of My Mom and Dad
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Foreword
Hillary Rodham Clinton
THE WRITER ELIZABETH STONE SAYS THAT having a child is forever deciding to have your heart go walking around outside your body. Those words were echoing in my mind the day I first met Gwen Carr and the other Mothers of the Movement. Over iced tea at the Sweet Maple Cafe on Chicago’s West Side, I listened to the stories of these brokenhearted mothers. Despite living through every parent’s worst nightmare, they radiated strength and quiet, fierce dignity. Their stories, and their strength, have stayed with me ever since. So has Gwen’s declaration that she intended to turn her sorrow into a strategy, and her mourning into a movement. By channeling her private pain into public activism, and sharing her truth in the pages of this book, that’s exactly what she has done.
It’s easy to feel overwhelmed by all that’s happening in our country, especially now—to read one heartbreaking headline after another and start to think, There’s nothing I can do, and it hurts too much to even try. But we cannot grow weary of doing good. Just think of Gwen’s resolve, her resilience, and her refusal to give up. She has endured some of the most painful circumstances imaginable—the excruciating loss of her firstborn, attempts to silence her voice, inaction from her own government, even attacks in the media. Yet, far from growing weary, she is doing everything she can to make our country a better place. As Gwen writes of her journey from quiet grandmother to unlikely activist, “I didn’t know if I could make a real difference, but I did know that I could try.” And so can we all.
From the title to the final page, Gwen’s book is a powerful call to action for our country. It’s also a deeply personal story that any parent can relate to—the story of a proud and loving mother determined to fight for her son. It can be a daunting challenge to pour your heart onto the page, to write candidly and courageously about things you may never even have spoken out loud. But with her trademark eloquence, Gwen bravely shines a light on her own doubts, her struggles, and her quest to push through her “limits and pain as a woman in her golden years who would rather be at home in her recliner.” Not only that, but she also summons the generosity to share her son Eric with the world: “He was much more than just a Black man in a viral video. He was a caring, compassionate man who had love as wide as the ocean.” Knowing Gwen is a gift, and so is reading this book.
I am grateful every day to Gwen for her friendship, and for her willingness to share her ideas and perspective with me with the same honesty and eloquence that radiates from these pages. These are complicated issues. But, as Gwen points out, “It’s our responsibility to figure out what each of us can do to contribute.” In our current political climate, reading and sharing books like Gwen’s, and adding our voices to hers, is even more vital. And while progress is still too slow, when the opportunity arises to move forward and create real change, the policy principles Gwen has laid out in this book are a fantastic place to start.
In the meantime, each of us owes it to Gwen and the Mothers of the Movement to ask what we can do in our own lives—to follow Gwen’s lead and refuse to grow complacent. At a minimum, we can start by facing hard truths, confronting our own implicit biases, and finding the courage to speak out. And we can try harder to walk in one another’s shoes. That means police officers and all of us doing everything we can to understand the effects of systemic racism that young Black and Latino men and women face every day, and how they are made to feel like their lives are disposable. It also means imagining what it’s like to be a police officer, kissing his or her kids and spouse goodbye every day and heading off to do a dangerous but necessary job. That kind of radical empathy isn’t easy to come by in a time when divisions in our country run as deep as they do today. But I am convinced that it’s what we need, now more than ever before.
The stories of the Mothers, and others who have lost loved ones to gun violence and p
olice incidents, deserve to be told and heard. As Gwen writes, “Our children were people with hopes and dreams just like anyone else, and . . . they [deserve] to be remembered for more than just their violent ending.” We have got to keep saying their names: Eric Garner, Sandra Bland, Michael Brown, Jordan Davis, Dontre Hamilton, Blair Holt, Trayvon Martin, Tamir Rice, Hadiya Pendleton—the list goes on. This cannot be seen as a political issue; it can and must be seen as an issue of fundamental justice and basic human decency. We should insist on nothing less from politicians, candidates, and anyone hoping to lead. The killing and mistreatment of young Black men and women has been the reality of life in America for too long. But we can’t accept it as our inevitable future. Let’s take Gwen’s words to heart and ensure that this stops today.
Chapter 1
South Brooklyn
Angels in heaven, hear my plea. Take care of my baby, just for me.
—Unknown
ON JULY 17, 2014, I WAS working my job as a train operator for the New York Metropolitan Transit Authority (MTA). I had just driven to Queens and was taking a break when my phone started blowing up. Calls, messages—they just kept coming. I was underground and totally unaware of the happenings in the bustling city above. I could tell from the sheer volume of messages that something was wrong, but I was working and couldn’t get the whole story. Something about my son, Eric. I called my husband, Ben, and said, “I just heard that something happened to Eric. I’m not sure what’s going on. Can you meet me at Stillwell Station? I’m on my way there now.”
I climbed back into the train and headed that way, my mind racing. I wasn’t allowed to check my phone while I was driving, and the suspense was making me a nervous wreck. I still hadn’t figured out exactly what had happened to my son. Then I realized that I was rocking back and forth, trying to will the train to go faster. I could feel the anxiety building up inside me. When I arrived at the station, I was alarmed to see Ben standing in the office waiting for me. “What are you doing up here? You can’t be in here. I’ll get in trouble. I told you to meet me downstairs.” I was furious that he was breaking the rules at my job.
“Gwen, it’s OK. They let me in. You won’t be in trouble. I told them that you needed to get home.”
I was still confused, and I had a strange feeling in my stomach. When we got downstairs, I started questioning him nonstop. “What’s going on? Did you hear anything? What happened to Eric?”
He said, “We’re headed to the hospital to see him. He should be there now.”
“Hospital? What do you mean he should be there? I don’t understand! We need to call somebody to find out exactly what happened!”
“Make sure to put your seatbelt on,” he said.
“I have my seatbelt on. I just—” Just then his phone rang. I couldn’t hear what the person on the other end was saying, but I could tell by the look on his face that it was bad. “Was that about Eric?”
“Yeah, he’s there, so we’re going to the hospital to see him now.”
I tried to calm myself down. “OK, but what did they say?” He was silent. “Is anything wrong with my son? Tell me! Tell me!”
He looked at me, and I saw tears streaming down his face, something I’d never seen before. I was truly getting scared.
“Gwen, Eric is dead.”
I don’t remember much after that. He told me later I was flailing my arms and legs, trying to kick the door open and bust out the window. I was a mother in pain. He had to turn on the automatic locks to keep me safe. He had tried to reason with me: “Gwen, we will be there soon! Please leave the door alone!”
I’m not sure what was going through my mind, but I do recall thinking that if I could just get out of the car, I could run faster. I could get to my son. I could help him. My boy needed me. My mind was spinning. This couldn’t be happening again. It couldn’t be real. I couldn’t have lost another child. There had to be some explanation.
On the way to the hospital, Ben tried to get assistance from a police officer. He was of no help, but at the time I didn’t understand his reluctance. When we got to the hospital, they told Ben that I couldn’t go in since I was obviously in no condition to see Eric. We went home so that we could try to find out what had happened. I remember sitting in the living room just feeling numb, not sure what was going on. Nothing was making sense to me. Everything around me seemed to be moving really fast and in slow motion all at once. It was like my senses couldn’t comprehend what was happening around me.
I tried a trick that I had heard about on some TV show. I needed something to focus on, so I chose Eric’s graduation photo, which was displayed on the wall in a neat row along with mine and those of my two other biological children, Emery and Ellisha. As I looked at Eric’s beaming face, I remembered how proud I was of my firstborn that day. Then I focused on my breathing. As I continued to focus on the photo, I took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, and exhaled. Then I turned my attention to my right foot. Still looking at the photo, I squeezed it and then relaxed it, then moved on to the left foot. This sounded silly when I heard it, but at this moment it gave me a sense of control. My mind was focused on one small task, and that brought me a brief sense of calm.
Just then the front door slammed shut, yanking me back into the harsh world I was trying to escape. Family members kept coming by in a steady stream, and that damn front door slammed each time, causing me to jump in my seat. The relaxation was short lived, and once again I was a nervous wreck. My mind was like a pressure cooker as I relived the moments leading up to this point. I wasn’t sure how much more I could take.
We kept getting bits of information. Police. Cigarettes. Choke-hold. Sidewalk. Something happened over on Bay Street in Staten Island, and news in the community travels real fast, especially bad news. I couldn’t make much sense of it, but I knew that something horrible had happened because news reporters began showing up at the house. Just a few hours ago, I was driving the train at work, and now there were reporters outside, all wanting to talk with us. It was a whirlwind, and everything was happening so fast that the family wasn’t sure what to do, what to say, or who to talk to.
Finally, my brother-in-law announced that he thought we should let one reporter in and ask him to print exactly what we told him. That way he felt that at least we would have some control over the message that would apparently be all over the news judging by the number of crews that had gathered outside, constantly asking us for comment whenever someone would enter or leave. The reporter who was chosen came in and talked to each of us. We gave our statements and asked him whether he would show us what he planned to print. He seemed very respectful and promised that he would write exactly what we had said. We thanked him for doing that and walked him to the door. Just then he stopped and turned around.
“There’s one thing that I want to tell you before you see it on the news tomorrow morning. We have it as an exclusive.”
“What do you mean?” Ben asked.
“There’s a video of the incident.”
Back in the day, we referred to the downtown area as “South Brooklyn,” and that’s where I grew up. I was born in 1949 at Cumberland Hospital on 39 Auburn Place. That beautiful, historic building located near Fort Greene Park was also the birthplace of some famous folks like Michael Jordan, Mike Tyson, and Spike Lee. The hospital served the community well, and practically everyone in the area was born there, knew someone who worked there, or had a relative pass away there. It closed in the 1980s and is now used by the city as a homeless shelter.
When I would walk by there as a child, I would often imagine all the events that took place inside those red brick walls. I’d smile thinking about the adorable little babies that were being born to excited, hopeful young couples. I’d imagine what it was like when people were getting sad news about being sick, and how excited they would be when they got better. Then I’d get a slight shiver thinking about the ones who passed away, hoping that wouldn’t happen in my family for a long time. It was like
we were all on loan from that place, like we were given the gift of life, sent out into the world, only to return one day, at the end.
I was always something of a quiet little girl. I tended to keep to myself, not talking too much or making a big fuss about things. It wasn’t because I didn’t have ideas, because I did. Thoughts were always dancing around inside my head as I tried to figure out how the world worked and how I fit into it. I would watch all the children screaming and playing in the streets, mothers sitting on stoops laughing, crying, and living their lives for everyone to see. That just wasn’t me. I preferred to think things through first, to observe others and learn from them. I felt more comfortable that way. I would rather wait for things to come to me.
My mother, Lula Mae, and father, Joseph Flagg, raised us to be polite and respectful. I had two sisters, Sharon and Marilyn, and two brothers, Joseph and James. With five kids, you could say it was always a busy household. Not only that, but we also had extended family nearby, and that number increased quite a bit as the years went on. I also had a best friend named Vernice. I had known her since we were babies, and she ended up living with us as well. I guess my parents figured that one more child wasn’t going to make much difference. Most people assumed that she was my sister because we were inseparable. That was fine by me because my parents taught us that family was everything. It was important to stick together and be there for each other. And by taking in Vernice when she needed it, they had reinforced the importance of unity. My folks always tried to lead by example.
My father was a Baptist minister, and most of my mother’s and father’s siblings lived on the same street with us. My father’s sisters all had family nicknames—Sweets, Doll Baby, Baby-Mae, Lil’ Sister, Cora, and Maude—and he had two brothers, Wilbert and Eugene. My mother had three sisters in the area—Alberta, Martha-Lee, and Catherine—and a brother named James who stayed back in North Carolina. Throughout my childhood, our extended family lived either on the same street or just a few blocks away. What fun we had with so many of my cousins always around. They all played an important role in my childhood and adult life.