by Gwen Carr
Cynthia even ran into a couple of caseworkers who had been with clients in the park. They all knew Eric from the neighborhood, and they corroborated the same story. She quickly realized that the “official” version didn’t sound right.
Ben had taken my brother to the hospital like I asked him to. While they were there, a friend called Ben and said, “They are beating up your son over on Bay Street! They have him down on the ground!” Since Ben was all the way in Coney Island, he called my brother Larry and asked him to get over to Bay Street to see what was going on with Eric. It wasn’t long before Larry called back and said, “Ben, Eric didn’t make it.” Ben was devastated. “No, don’t tell me that. Do not tell me that!”
Ben couldn’t believe what he had to do. It was up to him to come get me from work and break the news. He said it was the hardest thing he has ever done. When he came and picked me up from work that day, as soon as we got in the car I asked what was going on with Eric.
“Larry hasn’t told me yet, Gwen. Let’s go home.” Then his phone rang. He answered it but didn’t say anything after he hung up.
“Ben, was that Larry? What did he say?”
“He said he hasn’t heard anything yet.”
I knew that something was not right. “Ben, don’t lie to me.”
That’s when he told me the news that shattered my world. I could not even make sense of it. He said that I tried to get out of the car, and I started kicking at the windows while we were on the parkway. He had to restrain me with one hand and drive with the other. He even tried to get the police to escort us to the hospital, but they didn’t understand the urgency.
Ben called Ellisha as she was behind the wheel of the B-11 and told her the news. He’d left a message saying, “Ellisha, Eric is having trouble breathing.” Once Ellisha got to the end of her route, she checked her voicemail and realized that something serious had happened. She called “Big Ben,” as she referred to him. Ben told her, “It’s not looking good.” Ellisha didn’t realize that Eric had been attacked. She thought his asthma was acting up again. She called her dispatcher and said, “I need to get to my family.” Just about that time, Ben called her back with the news: “Eric didn’t make it.”
Once Ben pulled up to the home, I was a nervous wreck. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I kept pacing the floor and saying his name over and over again. Eric, Eric, Eric . . . I was trying to process what had happened. I heard snippets about how the police had harassed my boy, how they put him in a chokehold, how they squeezed the breath right out of him in broad daylight. The more I thought about it, the sicker I felt. Didn’t they know he had asthma? That he had trouble breathing? Had he told them that?
I could feel the devil wrap his strong hands of depression around my soul once again, one evil finger at a time. That familiar feeling was so warm and welcoming since it was something I knew all too well. I flashed back to when I lost Bernard and then almost twenty years later when Emery was taken from me. That depression had such a strong hold on me back then, and I could feel it coming back. At first I welcomed it—I embraced the feeling, allowed it into my heart and soul. I knew it would protect me from this pain and make it bearable. I would be swallowed in the dark abyss, but at least I would be able to cope with the horrible truth that my son was gone. Otherwise, how would I be able to survive?
With all of the news crews gathering in front of our house, we weren’t sure what to do. Larry went out and got a reporter from the Daily News , who promised to print exactly what we told him. That’s when we found out there was a video of the entire event. I knew I’d never be able to watch it. There was no way I could sit there as my son was tortured and abused right before my eyes. I could never put myself through that, and I still haven’t. Plus, if I did see that, I’m not sure what I would have done because the fact remains that, like most mothers, I would die for my children if necessary, no questions asked.
All I could think about was when Eric was a little boy so concerned about making friends and sticking up for people. I thought about his friends always saying how cheerful and helpful he was, and how he looked out for others. I thought about him in home economics class, and later how he was with his own children. It didn’t seem possible that my son was no longer alive. He was supposed to be at the reunion in two days. He was bringing the soda. He would be the life of the party, like always.
By Saturday, the day we had planned to get together with relatives in Prospect Park, the day we had planned to laugh and carry on while eating grilled food and playing games, we instead found ourselves down on Bay Street. Our family and members from Eric’s family met Reverend Al Sharpton there so we could walk to the Staten Island police precinct in a show of solidarity against these crimes toward our people.
I couldn’t look at the taped-off area in front of the beauty store. Imagining the horror that had occurred there was just too much for me. One thing I was thankful for was that I had asked Ben to carry my brother over to Coney Island Hospital that day. If he had been down on Bay Street when the tragedy went down, I know he would be in jail right now because he would have done anything to stop them from hurting our son.
As we gathered and waited for everyone to arrive, folks came out from all over to show their allegiance to the cause. Without saying a word, they all knew why we were there. It was a sad fact that we had all seen incidents like this before; it was an unfortunate part of our lives and one that unified us. As the crowd grew, some of the people there started to get worked up about the police brutality, and one guy threw a bottle. Ben stepped up and said, “Oh, hell no, we are not going to do that here. Not today. We are not going to tear up our own community. Not in Eric’s name.”
Lord knows I understood the pent-up anger and frustration that everyone was feeling, but there was a right way and a wrong way to express it. I did not want any violence going on, and Ben knew that. I don’t think I could have made it through those dark days without him by my side. When I was weak, he was strong. He helped guide me through those difficult days with so much love and compassion that I fell in love with him all over again. I could just give him a look and he knew to take over, to handle things when I just couldn’t.
When it was time to march, I held Reverend Sharpton’s hand and the rest of the family formed a chain, interlocking our arms as we marched down the street, cars stopping along the way to show respect. I kept my jaws clenched and my fists tight. My stomach was tied up in knots as I realized the importance of what we were doing. Others fell in line behind us, and soon we were hundreds strong, all kinds of folks—Black, Brown, White—walking with one purpose. Our faces were stern and our resolve absolute. We were there not just for Eric but also for everyone who felt disrespected and disenfranchised. Just because folks didn’t have a lot of money or power didn’t mean they were any less important. We walked for them.
I so appreciated Reverend Sharpton, Cynthia Davis, and the members of the National Action Network who had shown up to provide their support. They helped to mobilize us and bring attention to what we were doing, and I was grateful for that. I knew that as we marched down the street under the hot sun, the video that Ramsey had taken was playing endlessly on computers and cell phones all over the world. Now everyone could see what had happened to my boy with their own eyes.
Police brutality and harassment was no secret in our community. It was a part of everyday life for most non-Whites, especially for those who did not have a lot of money. They were weaker and easier to prey upon. With fewer financial resources and connections, the authorities knew their voices would likely never be heard. That’s one of the reasons I was so grateful for a man like Reverend Sharpton, because he helped to give us the voice we so desperately needed.
Ramsey’s video proved to be a game changer on many levels. Not since the Rodney King incident had such a brutal attack been recorded for the world to see. Finally, others could witness what we saw on a regular basis. Taisha’s video also made its way into the ether, validating everything
from a slightly different perspective.
As people viewed and shared the video many times over, everyone watched as they trapped my son like a caged animal. I have seen parts of it and heard what happened. Eric was so frustrated with the ongoing harassment, especially because he had done nothing wrong that day. Others even backed him up, trying to reason with the officers and help de-escalate the situation. It’s true that he tried to avoid being handcuffed because he knew that once that happened, he would be totally helpless, once again at their authoritarian mercy.
He wasn’t aggressive or assertive with those officers. He did what he always did—tried to calm everyone down and bring reason to the unreasonable, shed light in the darkness. He even asked them to please not touch him. He didn’t struggle with them, just tried to use his words, but they were ignored. This is the part I have not watched, the part where they took him down with such force that he was slammed first into the storefront glass and then the sidewalk. Still he pled for mercy.
As the officers piled on him, one even pushed on his head with such force that he could not get air. His asthma was likely triggered by the stress of the situation and the way they blocked his airflow. It was just inhumane. I can’t imagine a wild animal being treated in such a manner. The cries for mercy and the right to breathe just tear me up. Can anyone imagine if that was their child?
Apparently, it’s obvious that there was something wrong because Eric didn’t move after he was taken to the ground. He was in danger, but that was ignored. It just seems to me that common human decency would be to immediately get help, but that didn’t happen. He was obviously in no condition to harm anyone, and still he was left to suffer. Every time I think about how he must have been feeling, my pulse quickens, and I start getting light-headed.
I can’t explain the feeling of total helplessness that I continue to have. How could I not be able to protect my son? That was my job on this earth, and this was one time when I couldn’t run to his aid. It wasn’t like when he was an infant and I could feel that something was wrong with his breathing. He was an extension of me, and I knew then that he was suffering, that he wasn’t breathing like the other children I’d seen at the hospital. He needed help, and I made sure he got it.
Out there on Bay Street, he did not get the same treatment. I was not able to save my son that time. His friends tried to intervene, but they were not able to get close enough to help. They all tried their best by filming and proclaiming his innocence, but the police kept them at bay. If they had felt there was no option but to arrest him, they should have done that without hurting him. It wasn’t necessary. And when it was obvious that something was wrong, why didn’t they get help? Isn’t that a natural human instinct, to help someone when they need it? Weren’t they sworn to protect and serve?
At least with the videos, the incident wouldn’t get swept under the rug like so many others before it. There was now irrefutable evidence of the horrors that folks face out here every single day. Finally, the sheer terror and inhumaneness that poor folks have to deal with was captured with no edits, and no cuts. It was raw and real, the dirty truth of our world made public.
The one consolation was that with this evidence, things had to change. At least this would save other Black men and women from this inhumanity. With social media lit up by the incident, everyone on the planet would finally realize that people deserve human decency and fair treatment.
With every view and share of that evidence, things had to improve. Others would be saved from this travesty because law enforcement would be more cautious from now on. With cell phones pointed at them recording every moment, it meant that things had to get better; they just had to. I was sure that once people saw what happened, Eric’s death would be vindicated, and the officers would pay dearly for what they had done to my boy.
I was sure of it.
Chapter 4
The Chokehold
One day our descendants will think it incredible that we paid so much attention to things like the amount of melanin in our skin or the shape of our eyes or our gender instead of the unique identities of each of us as complex human beings.
—Franklin Thomas
BEN KNEW RAMSEY FROM BEING OVER on Bay Street. Ben said that he often talked to Eric, Ramsey, and some of the other guys about being careful and staying out of any potential problems by just minding their own business. If Eric was the easygoing one, Ramsey was a little more cautious and closed off. He had been through a lot in his young life, and it seemed to weigh on him, to wear him down, but he was still out there doing what he had to do.
After we found out from the Daily News reporter about the video, Ben asked where they had gotten it, and they told him that Ramsey Orta had given it to them. With the reporter’s help, they were able to locate Ramsey and bring him over to the house so that we could meet. I was still shell shocked from everything that happened when I saw the thin, young man standing there in my living room.
We stared at each other like deer in headlights, stunned by our shared grief, neither of us knowing what to say. I had just lost my son, and he had witnessed the brutality of his friend being choked to death. We were connected by that horrible moment and were both still processing it. I looked into his eyes and could see the concern and compassion he felt for Eric. Meeting him was an important moment, but I also regretted it for a second because it was another piece of the puzzle, more confirmation that this was not some horrible dream. Talking to Ramsey made me realize that my son was never coming back. This was real.
Fortunately, Ben was there to break the spell and help bridge the silence. Ramsey looked down at the floor a lot as he told us bits and pieces about what had happened. He didn’t focus on that too much. Instead, he began sharing stories with us about Eric’s generosity and how he took care of everyone, how he was always on the lookout for others. He said Eric was well respected, and he was very fatherly to a lot of the young folks over in the Bay Street neighborhood. I liked hearing that because I could picture him giving advice and trying to help others. He was always like that. He had plenty going on in his own life, but that never stopped him from trying to help other people, especially those who seemed troubled and lonely. Ramsey said that it was an honor to meet me because I was the mother Eric had talked so much about.
I wasn’t able to say a lot except “thank you.” I must have said it one hundred times, like I was on repeat. I was just so grateful that he had been brave enough to stand up for his friend despite the chaos that was happening in front of him. It took a lot of courage to do that, and I wanted him to know we were eternally grateful. He was put in a horrible situation, and he could have just run out on his friend, but he didn’t. That made him very special in my eyes.
Ben asked Ramsey to come to Eric’s funeral service, but he said that he would rather not. Maybe it was too painful for him, too raw. I certainly understood that and didn’t want to push him, but I did say that he would be welcome to come to the funeral or to our home if he ever needed to. As far as I was concerned, he was now part of the family.
I was not looking forward to Wednesday, July 23, 2014. That was the date for Eric’s service, and I dreaded it. This would give finality to everything, that my son was gone forever. The last few days had been a whirlwind of grief and gratitude. While Eric and I had a close relationship, I wasn’t with him every day, and he had his own life. As people started approaching me with stories about him, I learned so much that it was almost like a reawakening, a reaffirmation of the good qualities my son possessed. I knew it all along, but it felt good that so many other people felt the same way about him.
My picture had been plastered all over the news after Eric was killed. Not only photos but also video of interviews and publicity from the march in Staten Island with Reverend Al Sharpton and the NAN people. There was so much media after everything happened that I wasn’t sure what was going on. The activity swirled around me like a windstorm. It was very unnerving at first, since I’ve always been a private person
. I’ve never been one who enjoyed being the center of attention. That was more of Eric’s personality or Emery’s, but not me. I’d always been quieter, reserved. My parents had taught me to behave in a certain way, and that’s what I’d always done. Now things were different. I was in the public eye, and I didn’t have much choice about it.
Everywhere I went, people would come up to me—slowly at first, hesitant, asking whether I was Eric’s mother. Once I confirmed their suspicion, they would invariably launch into a story about how he had helped them or how he reminded them of their son or brother or husband. I did love hearing those stories. Eric livened up every family event he attended, so I knew the effect he had on people. However, it was heartwarming to hear from so many strangers that he was important to them, too. I had no idea he knew so many folks, of all types and age ranges.
He was just always like that. He connected with everyone, and there was no hesitation on his part. Despite his faults, I was very proud of the fact that he was always so willing to give of himself, that it came so naturally for him. I wouldn’t have been more impressed if he had been rich and famous. Being kind and generous are traits that are much more important to me than any material things could ever be.
Still, I found it difficult getting used to being recognized. I got a little paranoid because I always felt like I was being watched, which I was! I could see the stares and the quick glances, hear the low whispers. Don’t get me wrong, it was all done respectfully for the most part, but it was unnerving and still is. I’d gone from the anonymity that I loved to being recognized everywhere I went. I could tell when someone connected the dots and realized who I was. It would register on their face the second they placed in their mind that I was the mother in the countless news stories that blanketed the media, especially around the city.