by Gwen Carr
All I can say is that I wish more people had just half of Ramsey’s conviction. I’m serious about that. Look at all that has happened to him just because he tried to help. To me, the police should be glad when others are filming them because then they can prove that they are following protocol and acting appropriately . . . unless, of course, they aren’t.
It might be easy to just write Ramsey off and say that he was only arrested by the police because he had broken the law. However, the exact same treatment has happened to Taisha after she refused to stop recording “that day.” Since my son was killed, she has been harassed countless times. She said they would say things to her like “Oh, you are that b**** that filmed the Eric Garner video.” Whenever they realized who she was, she would face harassment, and she said she was even attacked. She said that she has been thrown to the ground, beaten with a baton, and dragged by her feet. Like Ramsey, she felt she had to take a plea to get out from under their grip, but it has not stopped. Her harassment continues to this day.
I find it hard to believe that any type of new training program has been implemented within the department because this kind of thing happens so often. The one thing that I always say, though, is that not every police officer is like that. Most of them, in fact, try to do the right thing and treat folks with respect. It’s those few who go too far, who don’t follow procedure, that give them a bad name, and those are the ones who I think should be reprimanded. If internal programs were implemented to properly handle those rogue officers, it would show that overall they are dedicated to truly serving the community with fairness and integrity.
One of the good things that came out of “that day” was that the NYPD reportedly re-evaluated its policy on chokeholds. Apparently, each department was using a different definition of what a choke-hold is and is not. Of course, that could all be cleared up by using proper training so that everyone knows what they can and cannot do. And the reason they cannot use that technique is because it can kill! It’s literally a matter of life and death.
Despite the closure that a funeral is supposed to provide, I still could not believe that I had lost another son to violence, especially when I have always preached peace and civility. I brought two boys into this world, and now I was left with none. I had outlived both of them, and that is something no mother should have to endure, much less to go through twice in one lifetime.
My days are a roller coaster of emotions. Some days I’m able to convince myself that I’m OK, that things are fine, and that I have my emotions under control. The next day everything feels dark and sad, like a rain cloud that won’t go away. I keep searching for the sunlight, for a glimpse of the strong rays that will burn away the darkness, but some days it does not come.
Nights are even worse. At first, I welcomed the darkness because I thought when I fell asleep that’s where I could escape the reality of what had happened. In dreamland, anything is possible. However, what I found is that when the lights go out, that’s when the devil gets very comfortable. Instead of slowing down my mind and slipping into a sweet slumber, my thoughts speed up, swirling around in a dervish and reminding me of everything that happened.
I realize that no matter how bad I might feel, it’s the daytime that offers some relief. That’s when I can spend time with family and friends, when I can busy myself with other tasks to keep my mind occupied. At night, I’m helpless. My thoughts take over, and I keep wondering what I could have done differently or how I could have stopped this from happening to my family. I keep searching for something that I know I will never find. I keep searching for answers.
As odd as it may sound, the one thing that has helped me is the small shrine I have created for Eric in my living room. There is an empty chest that once held gifts of fruits and candies. Now I store some of his things in it—his old toothbrush, some medicine. I also have a group of photos that remind me of happier times. They are in old, tarnished frames, but I’m afraid to change them because they may rip or tear in the process. I don’t think I could bear losing those images of my first son.
Some people think I’ve gone overboard with all my photos, and maybe I have, but I don’t care. I’m not taking them down any time soon. I also have Christmas stockings—not just for Eric, Emery, and Ellisha but also for all my grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
I leave them up all year round. It’s the least I can do.
Chapter 5
Rallying Cry
We all have dreams. In order to make dreams come into reality, it takes an awful lot of determination, dedication, self-discipline and effort.
—Jesse Owens, world-record-setting Olympic athlete
ON MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 29, 2014, THE New York grand jury hearing began and lasted for two months. The purpose of the jury was to determine whether police officer Pantaleo would face charges for choking my son. It was reported that the other officers at the scene received immunity in exchange for their testimony, but since the hearing was private, no one really knows what was said or done. Pantaleo was the one at the center of the investigation. There were twenty-three members of the jury, and it was racially mixed, with fourteen White and the others Brown and Black.
During the time between my son’s death and the grand jury, another tragedy had befallen our country. In August 2014, Michael Brown, another Black man, was killed by a White police officer, and that ignited the riots in Ferguson, Missouri. That tension spilled over into cities across the nation, including the already edgy residents of Staten Island. I could not believe that after Eric’s death, it was still happening. There was no end in sight. I felt frustrated and helpless.
As far as the grand jury went, we all thought that the medical examiner’s report and the videos shot by Ramsey and Taisha should have been all the evidence necessary for an indictment. How could anyone deny that? Whenever I was interviewed, I kept stressing to everyone that regardless of the ruling, there should be no violence in the community. We could figure out a way to get our message out in a peaceful manner. I just hoped people were listening, because with all that had happened I wasn’t feeling very confident in folks staying peaceful. They were justifiably angry.
Sure enough, despite all the evidence and testimonies from Ramsey, Taisha, the beauty supply store owner, and many others, the grand jury returned with the decision not to indict NYPD officer Daniel Pantaleo. I was devastated by the news, but I wasn’t surprised. I began to realize that this kind of constant disregard for minority folks was nothing new. Some family members were very angry by the ruling, and I understood that. Reverend Sharpton put it best when he said that this type of incident was a national crisis.
After that ruling, our only hope was for the case to be reviewed by the U.S. Department of Justice. At that time, Eric Holder was the U.S. attorney general, and he made a statement that there would be an investigation into Eric’s death, including a review of all of the material and testimony already collected. Unfortunately, that information remains sealed from the public “to protect witness identity.” At least that’s what officials have told us.
As further encouragement, President Obama met with Mayor de Blasio and Al Sharpton at the White House in the fall of 2014 to discuss not only the unrest that was happening in Ferguson but also the next step in the investigation of my son’s death. It seemed that Obama had the same idea that I did—to build trust and accountability with law enforcement and the communities they served.
That same month of the ruling, Eric’s immediate family had sued the city and was eventually awarded a sum of $5.9 million to be divided among his wife, children, and grandchildren. That also included the baby that he just found out he had a couple of months before he passed away.
Eric had moved out of his home and stayed with me and Ben for a few months. During that time, he met a woman named Jewel and often stayed with her. He helped with her children, and she helped him with his health by encouraging better habits. She made sure he took his steroid medication, despite the fact that it made him ga
in weight. To counteract that, she also got him eating better and getting more exercise. In fact, when he first started gaining weight, I would ask him, “Eric, where are you getting this weight from?” He had always been a skinny kid, but the medication had an effect on him. However, by changing some of his habits, his asthma had even improved.
I tried hard to stay out of my son’s personal business because I didn’t want to get in the middle of anything. All I wanted to do was celebrate my grandchildren and be a mother, grandmother, and even great-grandmother. So I let him go through personal issues on his own. All I could do was support my son’s choices and encourage him to do what made him happiest. I was excited to find out about Legacy, my newest grandchild, because I love babies and because she was a part of my son. She was premature, so she was already struggling in her young life, but when I first saw her I knew that she was Eric’s daughter. I just knew it.
Now, I’ll be honest and say that not everyone liked that there was a new baby, and from a woman who was not his wife, but I felt like I had to celebrate all of my grandchildren. That’s what a grandmother is supposed to do. I didn’t like the tension it caused, but this little girl had nothing to do with that. She just wanted and needed love, especially after her father was gone. I cannot even begin to imagine what it will be like for her to grow up and eventually comprehend what happened to her father. Of course, she will see the video at some point as well. My heart hurts just thinking about that. I also want to make sure she is involved with our family, with Eric’s extended family, since that will always be part of her heritage.
When there were family functions, Eric would bring his children and sometimes their siblings, even though he wasn’t their father. I guess it was a little complicated, but that was always his nature. He wanted to include everyone and just loved it when people got along. That was really when he was happiest as far as I’m concerned.
Unfortunately, I did have some previous experience with the New York justice system. On the morning of October 27, 2013, just nine months before Eric’s death, my nephew Joseph Flagg III (Lil Joe) was murdered at the restaurant/candy store he owned. Fortunately, they caught the killers, three young men all under the age of eighteen. I joined his wife, Zakiyyah, her brother, her children Brooke and Nia, and her friend Bridgette as we sat in the courtroom month after stressful month waiting for a decision. We listened as one of the defendants attempted to portray himself as the victim, but after reviewing all of the evidence, two of them took a plea and received a ten- and a fifteen-year sentence. The other one went to trial and eventually received a thirty-year sentence in April 2017, about three and a half years after the tragedy.
I read somewhere that one of the best ways to combat depression is to get involved in new activities. I had been severely despondent when my first husband died, and even more so when my son Emery was killed. I already knew some of the warning signs—feelings of hopelessness, loss of appetite, sleep issues, no energy, anger, and recklessness. I knew them all, and I’d succumbed to all of them too.
Previously I had lost lots of weight because I just didn’t care. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to care . . . I just couldn’t. I was not able to care. It was the strangest feeling to suddenly be overtaken by such a heavy sense of nothingness. I was so used to doing things like looking after the children, running a household, working a full-time job—and then all of a sudden it was like that was flushed away. It didn’t matter anymore. I wanted to care, I wanted to fix dinners and visit with family, but it felt like I was weighed down. It was such a different feeling for me, and everyone was alarmed because they knew how busy and active I usually was. Eric and Ellisha were especially concerned, particularly after Emery’s death, when they were old enough to understand the magnitude of the situation. They did their best to bring me out of it.
It felt good to have people so concerned about me, but that still wasn’t enough. Growing up, we never focused much on feeling sad or “depressed” or being overly emotional. We were too preoccupied with trying to earn a living and have a decent life. We didn’t really have time to talk about feelings and emotions. So, it felt odd that my life had come to a screeching halt because of how I was feeling, but it was real and it was powerful. That oppressive feeling was like nothing I’d ever felt before, and something I’d never wish on anyone.
Because it is invisible, it’s not like an obvious injury or physical condition, and that means some folks don’t have a good understanding of it. I know I didn’t until it happened to me. It all takes place in the recesses of your brain. It takes your soul hostage and invades your whole being. That makes it difficult for others to understand what you are going through. Yes, they know that there’s been a tragedy and that it’s normal to feel sad, but this goes way beyond that. So when the sadness lingers on long past when others think it should have subsided, their compassion begins to slowly fade and is replaced with frustration. That comes from not being able to comprehend just how difficult it can be to break out of that dark grip of the devil.
My family was especially concerned and caring, but I sensed that even they were getting tired of seeing me tired. I definitely didn’t blame them. It was hard for me to understand what was happening, so I know it was not easy for others. Just the fact that they hung in there with me and helped where they could meant the world to me, and it still does. As that fog finally, ultimately loosened its grip on my soul, that’s when I really started to comprehend all they had been doing for me. Before that, I was just so busy fighting to get back to my true self, and that took all of my energy.
I think the inability to fall asleep was a large part of it because I’d been scared to close my eyes, so I’d be up all night and then exhausted the next day. It was very unhealthy, but it was a cycle that I had such a hard time breaking out of. The evil spirit of depression had a real strong grip on me, and he was not about to let go. That was not a pleasant time in my life, and after Eric’s murder I knew that I had to approach things differently.
At first, I fell back into those old ways. I was despondent, didn’t want to talk to anyone, didn’t want anyone to come over, didn’t want to go anywhere. It was so much easier to retreat inside and hide away from the evils of the world. That is exactly what had happened before when I experienced tragedy. I just wanted to retreat from the world. Maybe that comes from being raised to keep things in the family and to take care of our problems ourselves. We weren’t much for seeking help when it came to family issues. We either resolved them ourselves or just moved on, hoping they would fade into the crevices.
However, I did realize that just because that was the easy way, I couldn’t go back there. I could not allow that evil to grab hold of me again. It was just too unhealthy, and my family was concerned that I might once again fall back into that dangerous pattern. Ellisha was especially worried since she had seen it before and knew the impact it could have not just on me but also on everyone around me.
With Eric’s death, that was much different because it was so public. I did not have the cloak of anonymity that I had had before. This time, it was all out in the public. All of our family business was out there for the world to see and discuss and judge. That meant not only the positive aspects, such as the focus on police brutality and living as a Black person in an often racially charged environment, but also the negatives out there.
People who watched the video made judgments not only about the law enforcement and their actions but also about my son. Because of the way he was dressed and the location where everything took place, it was easy for folks to come to their own conclusions about his life. It was difficult to get used to everything being so public like that. Because of those viral videos, there was no escaping those images, the comments, the blogs and tweets, and on and on.
All of that attention was a lot to take, and it wasn’t just affecting me but the whole family as well. It was also interesting to see how it impacted different relatives. It pulled some of us closer together, but it also drove oth
ers away. It’s hard to understand, but that kind of horrific tragedy affects people differently, and you just never know how someone will react until they are faced with it.
I just let them all be and hoped they would come to terms with things in their own way. In the meantime, I had to make sure that I was healthy. That meant keeping those damn demons away and trying to move forward. That’s one thing that I was learning through my life journey. No matter what challenges are thrown my way, no matter what I come up against in my life, I have to figure out a way to process it, deal with it, and keep moving forward. If I don’t, it’s all over for me. I can’t allow myself to spiral downward like that. I have to keep on living and figure out the best way to do that.
Cynthia Davis was on Bay Street on “that day.” It’s part of her job. As president of the Staten Island branch of the National Action Network, she’s a community outreach advocate. She works closely with law enforcement and the folks in the community, almost like a liaison to try to bridge the gap between the authorities and the people on the street. On “that day” two of the local residents had run up to her and told her about Eric being harassed down the street. She was on her way to another appointment and begged off, telling them she was already late for a meeting, but they were insistent. They told her she needed to go see what was going on, so that’s what she did.
The cops allowed her under the yellow tape since they worked with her often, and she remained there for about forty-five minutes as the investigation went on. She immediately asked the commander what happened and was told that there was a man selling cigarettes who had resisted arrest. He was overweight and was taken to the hospital, where he appeared to have died of a heart attack.
Unfortunately, Cynthia had seen this type of situation many times before and didn’t think the explanation sounded right. She and some of the other National Action Network people she worked closely with were often in that neighborhood, sometimes over in Tompkinsville Park, across the street from the crime scene, where they tended to the homeless and tried to help others who were struggling.