by Gwen Carr
As president of the local National Action Network (NAN) office, Cynthia Davis was consulted on anything that seemed amiss in the area, and the scene on the sidewalk in front of the beauty supply store was certainly out of the ordinary. Cynthia sprang into action and interviewed a lot of the local witnesses, asking them what they had seen. She found out that their stories lined up almost exactly with each other, but that sounded nothing like what the police had told her.
Then she talked to the caseworkers who were in the area. They corroborated the story. They knew Eric from the neighborhood and couldn’t believe that he was accused of resisting arrest. They had seen that he, like others in the area, was routinely harassed by the police, just to keep everyone on edge. They had seen him dealing with this type of situation before, and with his easygoing demeanor they knew that he would not harm anyone, especially the cops. He just wouldn’t do it.
So, when Al Sharpton and his group, NAN, arranged for a march the day after Eric was murdered (and another one over the week), I met Cynthia and was immediately impressed by her passion and drive for working to bring about positive change. Of course, I knew who Al Sharpton was, and I’d heard of the National Action Network, but I never really thought much about what it did. I knew it was something about working with the community, but I just never focused on it too much. Cynthia invited me to come to its Saturday morning meeting, so I did some research on the organization.
The website caught my attention right away with the headline “No Justice, No Peace.” Then I read the description: “The National Action Network is one of the leading civil rights organizations in the Nation, with chapters throughout the entire United States. Founded in 1991 by Reverend Al Sharpton, NAN works within the spirit and tradition of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. to promote a modern civil rights agenda that includes the fight for one standard of justice, decency and equal opportunities for all people regardless of race, religion, ethnicity, citizenship, criminal record, economic status, gender, gender expression, or sexuality.”
I had to step back to take all that in. This group was promoting justice for everyone—not just one group of people. I thought they mainly worked with Black folks, and maybe they do, but just the fact that their mission statement takes care to include all groups of people really impressed me. That is exactly how I feel we should all be doing things—working to give everyone equal opportunity regardless of differences. I get so tired of people being identified by their skin color or their mannerisms or who they love. The whole reason the United States is so great is that it is a melting pot from everywhere, with all types of people. Holding on to prejudices and preconceived notions of people is not only deconstructive but also potentially fatal.
The other areas of focus for NAN include criminal justice reform, police accountability, crisis intake and victim assistance, voting rights, corporate responsibility and pension diversity, youth leadership, and bridging the digital divide. I also looked into the history of the organization, because even though it was doing great work and Reverend Al Sharpton was fronting the group, I wanted to make sure it had a good reputation in the community. I found out that Sharpton created the group after he was stabbed during a protest march.
I know Al Sharpton has his supporters and his denouncers, just like any other public figure, but I think anyone who starts an organization based on such a personal ordeal is at least doing things for the right reasons. The fact that it has grown so large since it began in 1991 demonstrates how important and necessary this group’s work has been. I just can’t imagine some of the cases they have dealt with and the issues that have plagued so many people.
Armed with that information about the group, I decided that it couldn’t hurt to take Cynthia up on her invitation to join her, Al, and the others at their Saturday meeting. They have a rally at least one day a week, sometimes even more if something is happening in the community. So they asked me to come join them at the New York– based organization’s NAN office in Harlem, and they even sent a car for me to make sure I could get there.
The first one was the Saturday after Eric died. The funeral hadn’t been held yet. I saw Cynthia and talked to Reverend Al, and there were several other members of our family in attendance. As I sat there, I watched as Al preached and several others spoke. In each person, I could see the passion and conviction as they talked about the issue of police brutality in our community. Each person had a story about how they had been harassed and intimidated by the police, very similar to what happened to Eric.
Since the incident on Bay Street had just occurred, everyone was raw with emotion, me most of all. Hearing those stories and realizing just how universal Eric’s situation was gave me a sense of relief that it wasn’t just my son who went through this, but then I felt guilty because I certainly didn’t like that others were experiencing it too. I knew the issue was real in our streets, but I never understood just how everyone seemed to be affected in some way. If they weren’t the ones being harassed, they had a relative or friend who was. It just made me so sad that things had gotten this bad, that the police felt that this kind of behavior was necessary and justified. Something about the system was definitely broken because folks should not be treated this way in their own neighborhoods.
People live somewhere they can afford, where they feel comfortable, and in a place that they think is the best situation for their family. Finding out that they are having trouble almost daily as they live in their community just didn’t sit right with me. Some of the people spoke of being afraid to walk alone because there were no potential witnesses around and they felt even less safe. But it wasn’t the neighborhood they feared—it was the police.
Something had happened along the way. Somehow, with that “broken windows” policy and whatever other “strategies” the city came up with and forced on its officers, they lost the very core of their mission—to serve and protect. It’s almost as if people like us were not on an equal playing field, that we weren’t treated like everyone else. It felt like Black and Brown folks were the enemy. That didn’t feel good, and it didn’t feel right. Just as I was amazed by the stories these people shared, I was equally impressed by their actions. They were out in the streets, mobilizing folks to do something. They were marching or picketing or contacting representatives. Whatever it was, they were all getting involved.
That alone was impressive, but it was even more real because they talked of their families and their jobs and they all had full, busy lives, but still they marched. Still they stood in the cold or the rain to make sure they were heard. I think that seemed to be the missing piece of the puzzle. Folks in the community didn’t feel important, they didn’t feel they were being heard, and they didn’t feel like they mattered.
Somewhere along the way, while they were getting married and starting careers and having children, they realized that they were feeling less and less like they were part of their own community. They started to feel like the enemy, like they were doing something wrong just because of what they looked like or where they chose to live. So, despite being so busy, they carved out time to become active and to take a stand. That’s easier said than done.
I sat there wondering how they did it. Here I was, working full-time; even with no children living at home, I didn’t feel like I had a lot of free time. With family functions, running the house, and my job, I couldn’t image grabbing a sign and marching at city hall. As I listened to the speakers, I realized that they didn’t have the time, either. They were all busy and stretched thin, but the thing was, they didn’t feel like they had a choice. It was their responsibility as residents to do something—anything—to make their neighborhood a better place for their family. That was an a-ha moment for me.
I’d lived through the civil rights movement, and I’d seen our people work hard for change. I guess maybe with raising a family and working, I didn’t really think about getting involved. Maybe I had gotten too comfortable, like a lot of people. It’s not as if I thought things were perfect by
any means, but I didn’t think that there was anything someone like me could do to make a difference. Sitting there in that meeting, despite the fact that I still hadn’t totally processed my son’s death, I started to understand that maybe it’s our responsibility to figure out what each of us can do to contribute. But what could a lady like me do?
Every Saturday, NAN continued to send me a ride, and I continued to attend the rallies. Sometimes other family members joined me, and sometimes they didn’t. Still, I went. It was like adjusting the focus on a camera. At first things were fuzzy, but the more I went back and the more I listened, the clearer things became. I was learning so much about what people were doing and the responses they were getting. They shared their challenges, their frustrations, and the best part, their successes. I could just see how proud they were when they made progress, even if it was just a small step. The fact that they were able to actually get someone’s attention and make something happen was amazing and inspiring. That showed me that it was possible, even for someone like me.
In August, only a month after “that day,” Al Sharpton and the people at NAN organized a huge march on Staten Island. It was much bigger than the impromptu one the day after Eric died. There were thousands in attendance, and the atmosphere was so inspiring. Seeing all those people, all kinds of people of every color, come together to demand justice for my son was just amazing. I saw for myself what can happen when people are mobilized.
Eric’s murder had been the main topic all over the city for weeks. Everyone was shocked by the viral videos, and it was the topic of conversation no matter where I went. Many tragedies happen in New York City every day, but this was the first time I’d seen one that seemed to take hold of the city and not let go. I guess it was because those videos were impossible to avoid and seeing brutality before their eyes meant that this kind of behavior, this treatment of people, could no longer be ignored. Previously, there might be a mention on the news or talk in the community, but then it would burn off like a heavy morning fog.
This time, with that visual evidence circulating around the world, folks sitting on their comfortable couches or hunched over morning coffee in their work cubicles could watch the video and see for themselves how people were being treated out in the streets. It was no longer a thirty-second news story or a paragraph on the crime blog. It was real life. Every city has an area like Bay Street and a park like Thompsonville, and people like Eric and Ramsey and Taisha. This was not a Staten Island problem, or even a New York problem. It was a problem that affected the entire country.
Everyone could relate to the hopelessness and sheer brutality Eric faced as he fought for his life, as he fought to be heard. He was just so frustrated with the constant harassment, the fact that they routinely took his money, and the intimidation tactics they used. He felt like he was trapped, and that he had to take a stand. However, the more he protested, the more they closed in on him. I could just hear the frustration in his voice. That’s why I couldn’t watch the whole thing. I will not allow that to be the last image I have of my son.
Seeing the commitment of the folks who showed up for the march gave me hope that maybe things would change and this wouldn’t happen to anyone else. These people had seen what can happen during a police confrontation, even when you stay peaceful. There were guards from NAN and uniformed and plainclothes police making sure the event stayed peaceful. Emotions were running high, and rightly so. However, we all agreed that there was no room for violence here. We had seen enough violence. Now it was time for change.
I stayed close to Al as we marched down the street alongside family, friends, and others. When we reached the stage, several people made powerful, impactful speeches. Al Sharpton asked those police officers a rhetorical question: “When does your humanity kick in?” There were even retired NYPD officers there who spoke in support of better police training and new strategies to ensure that this kind of incident didn’t happen again. If you see me in any of those videos, I’m usually standing with Al, to show support for the cause, and just trying to keep my emotions in check.
You have to remember, I was a happy little homebody before all of this happened, so being suddenly thrust in the middle of this cyclone of activity was very disorienting. I was going along with it, but I wasn’t really sure what I was supposed to do or how I was expected to act. What were the rules? What was the protocol? I had no idea. I just did the best I could to try to manage my emotions and take it all in.
I got emotional a lot, especially at the beginning. At first it was because I had to relive Eric’s last day on earth, and it was incredibly painful. Going through it once almost destroyed me, so to keep hearing about it and talking about it over and over practically tore me apart. I also got emotional for another reason: Seeing all those people devoting their time to seeking justice for Eric filled me with an almost indescribable joy. These folks, of all races, were sincere in their devotion to helping make things better. Seeing their dedication and hearing their words of strength and determination touched me to the core. I was so relieved that everyone was coming together to demand change, to demand justice, and to demand accountability.
I left that day feeling something I didn’t think I would feel for a long time: I felt hopeful. The positive energy flowed from that crowd of people and wrapped around me like a warm blanket. It lifted my spirit and filled my soul in a way that I’d never experienced. How could these strangers have such an impact on me? It was such a welcome surprise that I started to realize the power of mobilization and unity.
In December 2014, we received the devastating news that the New York grand jury had decided not to indict anyone involved in my son’s murder. Not one single person was held responsible or accountable. To make matters more frustrating, everything was done behind closed doors, and no documents were shared with us. Everything was supposedly kept confidential to protect those who testified. I’m not sure why that was because everyone I knew who testified said that they were happy to share what they said.
Taisha Allen said that when she testified, she felt rushed and didn’t think they were even listening to what she had to say. She also said they kept reinterpreting her words. She felt like it was a waste of her time; they had already decided what they were going to do.
That could be true because all of the law enforcement divisions work together, side by side, every day. The prosecutors are local, so they work with the police officers and the rest of law enforcement. Then they are put in a position to decide whether they are going to charge the officers involved in an incident, and it doesn’t make sense. Al Sharpton said that the prosecutors should come from somewhere else, that prosecutors should be brought in to review the evidence and make determinations. It’s just so difficult to understand because grand juries almost always take the recommendation of the prosecutors, so why didn’t they recommend anything? It’s hard to know because everything is classified. The one thing I do know is that my son is dead and no one is being held accountable. As a parent and a mother, I just find that reprehensible. How can I, in good conscience, not do something in my son’s name? How can I just let them get away with his murder?
After the disappointing ruling, we all gathered at the NAN office in Harlem. Al was there, and Cynthia Davis, my family, and lots of other concerned citizens. Al declared it “a national crisis.” He asked, “How many have to die before people understand this is a reality that America has to come to terms with? No secret grand jury with local prosecutors will stop people from demanding answers. We are not advocating violence—we are asking that police violence stop.”
I braced myself for the public reaction, and, as expected, it was swift and loud. It wasn’t just New York City that was stunned by the ruling but the entire country. Along with the strong reaction locally, there were “Garner protests” in every major city. Unfortunately, there were a few violent incidents, but for the most part it was a united, countrywide, peaceful protest against a horrible decision. Some universities staged “die
-ins,” where students placed themselves strategically on the lush green lawns in front of academic buildings to illustrate the seriousness and the magnitude of the issue. Major highways were shut down by peaceful marches down streets, over bridges, and up to the steps of city hall. This was in December, but protesters braved the cold, the rain, and the wind. They were not about to let the weather deter them from their mission for justice.
Then it went much further than that. Of course, it took over the social media platforms, but another group showed their support for the cause. Major athletes made their own statements to show solidarity within the rules of their sport and their team. Without showing disrespect or disruption to their sport, they instead decided to get creative.
One of the first NBA players to show disdain for the decision was 2011 MVP Chicago Bulls player Derrick Rose, who wore the words “I can’t breathe” on a T-shirt during pregame warmups against the Warriors on December 6. Others joined in soon after, including LeBron James and Kyrie Irving of the Cleveland Cavaliers, who wore similar T-shirts during their pregame warmups against the Nets. Several Nets players wore the message as well, including Jarrett Jack, Alan Anderson, Deron Williams, and Kevin Garnett.
Detroit Lions running back Reggie Bush wore an “I can’t breathe” shirt before one of his games. Other NFL players to wear T-shirts with the phrase included Cleveland Browns cornerback Johnson Bademosi, San Diego Chargers linebacker Melvin Ingram, and St. Louis Rams offensive lineman Davin Joseph, who strategically wrote the message on his cleats.
I was worried there might be some backlash in the sports community because previously, to support the protest of yet another grand jury decision not to indict, this time in the Michael Brown case in Ferguson, Missouri, several members of the Rams had entered the field with their hands in the air in the universal “don’t shoot” pose. That caused some boos and fan rage in the parking lots following the games. Fortunately, I didn’t see any of that with Eric’s case.