by Gwen Carr
The sight of those sports figures showing their support meant a lot for several reasons. First, since they are role models for many young children, they set the tone with their behavior, which is why leagues and teams often have strict conduct rules. Seeing them showing their support and dedication to the cause in their own way meant a lot. Plus, it sent a signal to those viewers that just because you are watching entertainment doesn’t mean everything else is ignored. Things are still happening in the world, and people are allowed to express their opinions.
Second, the majority of the players showing support were minorities, so they know what it can be like out in those streets and communities. They know the difficulties of growing up Black in America. It’s not easy, no matter where you live. It’s filled with challenges and struggles regardless of social status or pedigree. Racism in our country is real, and it’s pervasive.
You don’t escape it because you are in an elevated social class or in a privileged community. It still happens, and it’s still hurtful, and most of all, it can still be deadly. That’s the message we were working hard to convey, that everyone should be treated equally regardless of their differences. And while NAN fights to protect everyone, at that point the country was dealing with an alarming number of cases where Black and Brown people were being harassed and even killed at the hands of law enforcement. Those challenges exist, even though they shouldn’t.
Particularly if you are a minority, you need to be aware and you need to be prepared. Driving while Black, walking while Black, shopping while Black, going to a park while Black, and certainly being out on the sidewalk on Bay Street in the middle of the day while Black can get you killed. There’s no denying that, and there’s no mistaking the gravity of the situation.
I appreciated the dedication and commitment that sprung up across the country, and I thought that those sports figures, with the highly visible platform and large social reach, were especially helpful and impactful when they took a stand. That also hit home for me because I remember learning about some very pivotal sports moments when I was in high school.
We learned that civil rights and sports have intersected at some very historic times. In the 1936 Olympics, Jesse Owens set the world on fire with his amazing performance in track and field. It was especially impactful because it occurred in Germany during Hitler’s rise to power, and it effectively and dramatically blew a hole in the Aryan race theory of superiority. Jesse’s epic performance showed the world that there is no better race—just amazing people who succeed because of their skill, determination, and perseverance.
That fact that this Black man made such an indelible mark on the games and was the first American track and field athlete to win four gold medals in a single Olympics was important. It was especially impactful because it happened in Nazi Germany, on their own turf. In addition, it helped elevate public conversation about race and civil rights and the fact that it’s about the individual, not a person’s race.
I also remembered another Olympic event that I lived through. It was also very impactful. It was the 1968 games held in Mexico City, and at the medal ceremony, after they won gold and bronze medals, two Black athletes named Tommie Smith and John Carlos stood on their raised podiums. As “The Star-Spangled Banner” began to play, they faced the American flag and raised their fists in the “Black Power” symbol to show their solidarity with those around the world who were fighting for human rights. It was very moving for me because that was when the civil rights activities were really gaining momentum in the United States and there was lots of controversy. The two medalists were booed when they left the field and were then removed from the rest of the Olympics that year.
It seems like athletics and political statements have gone on throughout history, so my only hope was that it would somehow raise human consciousness about the issues of police brutality and the injustice that almost always follows those events. If a sports figure can get people to think and to talk, maybe there is hope that change will occur. The only way something like that is going to happen is if people demand it. I had been learning that through those Saturday rallies and marches in the streets.
That quiet voice inside of me started to grow louder and louder. I began to think, Maybe I can have my voice heard, and maybe people will actually listen. Maybe this was a way to keep Eric’s name out there in the public and keep the incident fresh in people’s minds so that they didn’t forget. With that line of thinking, I started going to more marches and more rallies and more protests. With Cynthia’s encouragement, I stood out in the cold and the rain and the snow. Sometimes it was just her and me, just the two of us, standing in front of the post office on Staten Island, one of the only official buildings we could find. That was all right. I was learning.
You know why I really started to get involved? It might sound odd, but each time I did it, I felt closer to Eric. I felt like I was honoring him, and he was there with me. With each step I took and each sign I made, I could feel him more and more. It was a comfort and a sign of encouragement for me. I know that if he had been here and saw me doing that, he would have been so surprised: “Ma, what are you doing? That’s not like you.” But then he would have been so proud that I was getting outside of my comfort zone.
I started doing it for him, for his memory, and for his spirit, because it fed my soul and gave me reason to get up in the morning. After a full day of marching and sharing stories about Eric until my voice was raw, I would lie down in bed satisfied that I had done my best that day. Then, before I went to sleep, I would promise Eric that I was going to do that same thing tomorrow, the next day, and the next.
I knew it was too late for Eric, but I realized that I had to try to do everything I could to save other people, especially the children. I had to change my mourning into movement, my pain into purpose, and my sorrow into strategy. At first the publicity and the media and the attention was just too much for me. I wasn’t sure I could handle it. Having such a bright spotlight on my personal life was uncomfortable.
Then I realized that I needed to take that discomfort and shift it so that it would motivate me. The more attention I got, the more interview requests I received, and the more reporters that showed up, the more strength I got. I decided that I needed to harness that attention and use that energy for positivity.
At first I wondered who would listen to quiet, reserved Gwen Carr, a great-grandmother from Brooklyn. But even after the grand jury’s horrible decision, I was still getting requests to come somewhere to speak or sit on a panel or even tape a television show. To me, that meant this wasn’t going away. Unfortunately, there had been several other horrible police incidents, and still Eric’s case was on the minds of the public. People refused to give up on him and his memory. The sheer injustice and inhumanity made an impression that was hard to shake.
Realizing that this wasn’t going away, I did what I’d promised myself when I was starting to spiral into that hole of depression— find something new to focus on. Here it was, right in front of me. This was my new mission and my purpose. It fulfilled me and gave me the satisfaction that I was truly putting my energy where it had the most impact. I wasn’t sitting at home. I was out in the community, on the evening news, and on the radio telling everyone my story.
I would keep Eric’s name out there and continue to talk about him. I would make sure his life meant something and show that 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. And it made me feel good to share stories about him because in each interview I was invariably asked, “What was your son like?”
That question always got to me, caused me to stop for a minute and take a breath. I was doing this for Eric, and when I heard someone else say his name, it would just hit me that he was no longer with me. Until then, when I was talking about him, it was like it used to be when he was alive, me bragging on my son. However, when someone asked what he was like—well, that would bring reality crashing ba
ck down around me.
It’s not that I was fooling myself or anything—it was just that I felt so good talking about him and his spirit that I could push reality back for just a minute and escape into a world where my son was still with me. Then I started to realize that he was with me, that I could feel his presence. It was more spiritual and soulful than anything else. I just felt full and complete when I spoke about him. His spirit filled me, and as I continued speaking about him, my spirit stayed full and it felt good.
To me, that was the only sign I needed that I was on the right path and doing what I needed to be doing. I still wasn’t great at it, at least I didn’t think so, but people kept telling me that I was doing a good job. In the beginning, I wanted to be perfect. I wanted to say the right things, wear the right clothes, come across in the right way. I didn’t want to be seen as pushy or preachy.
Once, I had to speak in front of a large group, and it was my first big speaking opportunity. I prayed that I would have the strength to do a good job and come across in just the right way. I thought about other speakers I had seen and wished I were more polished like them or used bigger words or had better stories to share. As I continued to pray about it, I think Eric came to me because I heard and felt the spirit.
There was no need to worry about being perfect because there’s no such thing. I just needed to trust in myself and be as authentic as I could be. That’s how people relate to me and it’s the only way I need to be, which is good because it’s the only way I know how to be. All of this came out of a horrible situation. I didn’t seek it out. I had no interest in getting involved in change before all of this happened. I was happy to just stay at home, go to work, and visit family on the weekends.
At first, after everything happened, I was still employed at the MTA, but as things progressed I realized that I couldn’t go back to work. I just couldn’t imagine after all that had happened that I would be underground driving a train through the underbelly of the city. I did try, though. One day I felt like I had gotten better, and I went in to work to see how it felt. Everyone was very nice and supportive, but at the end of that day, one of the dispatchers came running out of the office when my train came in. I thought she was going to offer her condolences, but instead she said, “I see your train didn’t come in on time, so I marked you ten minutes late.” I signed out and went home. I never went back.
I had vacation and other paid time off, and they were very good to me during my time away from work. They even sent papers to me to sign when I couldn’t come in and always checked to see how I was doing. So I appreciated them on that level, but I realized that with all I’d been through, it was time for a new chapter in my life.
Things were so much bigger now, and they had taken on a different meaning. Getting called out for being ten minutes late on a train run was just something that I couldn’t deal with. Eric’s death overshadowed everything else, and everything else seemed so much smaller in comparison. It just didn’t have the same importance. I guess my perspective had changed . . . a lot.
It was time for me to use whatever means I could to spread the message about my son and the horrible event that ended his life. I didn’t know if I could make a real difference, but I did know that I could try. After attending the NAN events and watching Reverend Al, I had learned from the best, so I could do it my own way. With their support and the support of my family and friends, I stepped out of my comfort zone and into the public eye.
To be honest, it felt good doing it based on my own decision and not because I was forced to due to the circumstances. It was important to me that I did it when I was ready and when I felt comfortable. Most important, I waited until I felt like I had a sign from my son that this was the path I should take. It was still scary, and I wasn’t exactly sure what I was getting into.
At this stage of my life, it’s probably unusual to start a new chapter like this, but it feels right, and it feels important. I’m not taking up a new hobby; I’m trying to bring about real change that will help others live better lives. I’m also hoping that through it all, during this journey, I’ll be able to see some justice for Eric’s death. As a mother, I owe it to him and to his brother Emery to do whatever I can. I know I can’t bring them back, but by talking about them I can keep them with me. That makes me feel like I’m doing what is right for me and for them.
When I checked back at the National Action Network website to remind myself of their mission, I saw that they added my son’s name to their crisis intake and victim assistance section: “NAN has led the fight against police misconduct and other injustices by ensuring that those whose rights are violated are brought to justice. NAN’s efforts were on display in response to events involving the police sodomy of Abner Louima; the police killings of Amadou Diallo, Sean Bell, Ramarley Graham, and Eric Garner among others; and the killing of Trayvon Martin by a neighborhood ‘watchman.’ We also offer legal assistance through Legal Night and referrals to clients through our Crisis Intake and National Crisis Center, headquartered at our House of Justice in Harlem.”
Chapter 6
The Mothers of the Movement
You may encounter many defeats, but you must not be defeated. In fact, it may be necessary to encounter the defeats, so you can know who you are, what you can rise from, how you can still come out of it.
—Maya Angelou
IATTENDED AN EVENT IN THE fall of 2014 that changed my life. It was the Congressional Black Caucus (CBC) convention on September 19, in Washington, DC, along with friends I’d made from the National Action Network. While there, I met someone else who became an important person in my life. A little more than two years before Eric died, seventeen-year-old Trayvon Martin was shot in Sanford, Florida, by a neighborhood watch volunteer. I had heard a lot about that case, and it had made such an impression on me because the boy was a teenager and because it seemed so senseless, like Eric’s death.
At the CBC convention I met Sybrina Fulton, Trayvon’s mother. She seemed so poised. She was so very nice and giving when we spoke and shared our stories. We’d only seen each other in the news, so it was a little strange meeting in real life, but that went away quickly. She shared how things had been going for her and how she had been handling the attention, which was very helpful to me. Plus, she has been involved in activism herself and gave me some advice: “Miss Gwen, a lot of people will ask you to do a lot of things, and sometimes you just have to say no.” That was good advice, because I was still learning the ins and outs of this activism stuff and what it was like being in the public eye.
I also met Lezley McSpadden, the mother of Michael Brown, who just a month before the convention had been killed by Ferguson, Missouri, police at a convenience store. It was refreshing to talk to the two mothers because they were in a situation very similar to mine. The three of us were all members of an unfortunate club, a club that no one would ever choose to join. Our sons had died at the hands of “law enforcement” in one way or another, and while the circumstances were different, the resulting pain was the same. At first it felt strange that we were connected by our grief, but as we got to know each other, we realized that we had other things in common as well. I also found that being able to talk and share with these ladies made me feel a little better, that maybe I wasn’t out here all alone. These women were also getting involved, which was the reason they decided to attend the convention. We all hoped to glean some advice and tools and strategies that we could use when we went back home to our community activism.
That felt a little odd too, calling myself an activist. Whenever I heard that word it conjured up images of the 1960s and Dr. King and protests and handmade signs. I’m sure it was my own stereotyping, but I just felt like an activist was so informed and driven and determined. I didn’t feel like I was in that league. Maybe I would get there. I wasn’t sure. I didn’t know if that was even what I wanted. It had only been a couple of months since my son’s passing, and everything was all so new. I didn’t feel like an activist. I just
felt like myself trying to get out there and make people think. Maybe it would get better with time.
I guess if you have a lot of money, you can pay people to help train you on what to do and say and how to act, but I’m not that way, so I just do it the best I can. It was definitely inspiring to see all the people brought together by that convention. Their focus was on ensuring justice for all, decreasing gaps in education, and promoting economic security for all people. Each year it is a four-day event at the Walter E. Washington Convention Center in DC. There were thousands there, and I noticed that a lot of the programs focused on young Black people and their future, which I found encouraging.
It was somewhat overwhelming that first time because there were receptions, breakfasts, exhibits, gospel events, jazz concerts, prayer breakfasts—all leading up to the Phoenix Awards Dinner that closed out the convention. Just like the presidential inaugurations in that city, there are also lots of receptions and networking events in bars, restaurants, and meeting halls all around town. There was a lot to take in and a lot to learn, but that was OK. I was ready for it. Things were starting to click as I saw the power of organization and mobilization.
To continue educating myself, I found out a little about the CBC that puts on this annual event:
Since its establishment in 1971, the Congressional Black Caucus (CBC) has been committed to using the full Constitutional power, statutory authority, and financial resources of the federal government to ensure that African Americans and other marginalized communities in the United States have the opportunity to achieve the American Dream. As part of this commitment, the CBC has fought for the past 46 years to empower these citizens and address their legislative concerns by pursuing a policy agenda that includes but is not limited to the following: