When They Call You a Terrorist

by Patrisse Khan-Cullors

  No longer living as husband and wife, no longer lovers, Mark Anthony and I continue to work together closely, particularly around Dignity and Power Now. I spend most of my time raising money as he builds the health and healing programs in the organization. Here, in this way, we soar. We still do.

  * * *

  I begin to date again. I want to love, I need to love. I want a family, a core, a loving and stable center to return to, to awaken to. Carla introduces me to Rei, a Transman who is part Paraguayan, part Japanese. They are a brilliant urban planner and organizer, but I do not want to be monogamous and that isn’t something they can deal with. At the time, I am also seeing JT, long a friend. He is the second and the only other cisgender, heterosexual man I have ever been with. He has been an integral part of the growth of BLM in its earliest stages and we are close. I care for him deeply as I care for his daughter deeply, the small artist who was with us during the second raid on St. Elmo’s Village. JT and I begin to talk about what it would mean to have a child together. He wants another baby and I want to be a mother. We think about ways we could co-parent and partner without being married. I like how I feel in the space with JT, both liberated and connected.

  But while we are thinking aloud about children and family, there is another July 13. It is 2015. We begin to hear about a young woman who was driving to a new job and a new life in Texas, where she would be an administrator at a college. She had a vlog and she called it Sandy Speaks. She offered opinions and comments on the state of our lives in America. She challenged us: Are you doing something productive today?

  She is one of us and her name is Sandra Bland and we come to know her because on July 10, 2015, she was pulled over for a nonsense traffic violation by a state trooper, Brian Encinia. He claims the 28-year-old woman from Chicago failed to signal a turn, and then, even as she is giving him the documents he needs to write her ticket, he tells her to put out the cigarette she is smoking while sitting in her own car. She refuses, at which point Encinia snatches her out of the vehicle and slams her to the ground on the side of the road. The dashcam video of him doing this will circulate, along with his subsequent rough arrest of her; Encinia threatens to “light her up.”

  Eventually he will be indicted for perjury and fired, but this will not happen in time enough to save Sandra Bland. On July 13, 2015, she is found dead, hanged, in her jail cell. Her death will be ruled a suicide, but no one with sense will believe this. Had she ever expressed pain, frustration, sadness? Yes. Is this the case with most Black people living in a nation that openly hates us? Yes. But is there anything in her profile to say she would kill herself in jail? No. Not. One. Thing. She was on the way to a new job. She was actively advocating for herself and other Black people. She was in fight mode. She spoke to her sister and they were pulling together bail money.

  Sandra Bland did not, did not, did not commit suicide.

  Sandra Bland believed that her Black life, that all of our Black lives, mattered.

  She stood for us and she was us.

  We refuse to be silent.

  Immediately, the African American Policy Forum, led by the great civil rights attorney Kimberlé Crenshaw, began using #SayHerName to acknowledge the numbers of Black women who were victims of state violence. Indeed, the day after Sandra Bland was found hanged in jail, in Alabama, 18-year-old Kindra Chapman was found hanging in her cell. She’d been in there for 90 minutes, held on the charge that she’d stolen a cell phone.

  But there were more, so many:

  Tanisha Anderson, a 37-year-old woman struggling with mental health issues, died after Cleveland police slammed her head into the pavement outside of her family’s home.

  Miriam Carey, a 34-year-old dental hygienist who made a wrong turn near the White House and was fatally shot by federal law enforcement officers in 2013. While her baby was in the car.

  Shelly Hilliard, a 19-year-old Black Transwoman from Detroit who is threatened with being thrown in a men’s jail for smoking marijuana unless she turns over her dealer. She does, but the cops reveal to the sellers who informed on them and Shelly is killed, cut into pieces and the pieces of her precious body, set afire.

  Rekia Boyd, a 22-year-old woman living in Chicago, was hanging out with her friends in the park when she was shot and killed by an off-duty police officer who said he’d received a noise complaint.

  Shelly Frey, a 27-year-old mother of two, shot by Walmart security who accused her of shoplifting.

  Aiyana Stanley-Jones, a child of seven, killed when Detroit police officers barged into her family’s home with their guns drawn. They shot her in the head.

  Kathryn Johnston, a 92-year-old woman, shot and killed by Atlanta cops who were on a drug raid. They came in shooting and only later realized they got the address wrong.

  These few names are only part of a long, terrible list, but, like the horrific history of lynching in this country, when the story is told, women are often left out of it even as we are lynched, too. And some of the women are pregnant at the time of the lynching. Some have their unborn babies cut out of their wombs.

  And with Sandra Bland, maybe because she looked like a sister we would see at one of our meetings, one of our marches.

  And maybe because our movement is being led by women, Queer and straight, cisgender and Trans.

  And maybe because she worked so hard to put her voice out there, pushing anyone to hear her say our lives matter.

  And maybe because so many of us have family who have been harmed in jails and prisons but that harm has not become part of the broader public discussion about the bind, torture, kill that is part and parcel of the American system of incarceration.

  And maybe because we just can’t stand one more loss, and for days after hearing what happened to Sandy I personally battled to pull myself out of grief—she was one of our family—we know, I know, we have to Say Her Name.

  We had to raise our voices for her as she raised her voice for us. The world was going to know what happened to Sandra Bland, our sister, our family.

  Several of us begin talking. I speak to friends from the Dream Defenders, from our LA chapter of BLM—we’ve grown to be 20 chapters at this point. And I speak to friends who are a part of Mi Gente. They have an incredible group of people working in Phoenix, the epicenter of anti-immigrant hatred and bigotry. We decide to meet up at the Netroots conference—which is being held in Phoenix. And we are fairly certain that no one there is going to talk about the 28-year-old woman who was found hanged in a jail cell in Waller, Texas. So we decide to.

  We don’t do things then the way I would do them now. I don’t tell the larger BLM network what is happening, or even Alicia and Opal. I am still getting used to what it means to be in a national spotlight. We aren’t sure how we are going to get the message out, but less than a week after we find out about Sandra Bland’s death, on a Sunday night, we meet up at the single soul-food place in Phoenix, a Black-owned restaurant called Lolo’s Chicken and Waffles.

  They know who we are and give us private space in the back to meet. And in between the hours of planning and strategizing about what to do, we sing gospel songs and we mourn. We laugh and we cry. By the end of the night Angela Peoples from the LGBTQ human rights organization GetEQUAL says, Y’all. They’re gonna do a candidates forum. Bernie Sanders and Martin O’Malley are going to be there. We need to interrupt that.

  And I say, We need to shut it down. And that was that.

  The next day, I text Jose Antonio Vargas, the brave journalist who had been part of the Washington Post team that garnered a Pulitzer for its breaking coverage of the mass shooting at Virginia Tech, and who outed himself as undocumented, having been sent to the United States from the Philippines as a child to live with his grandparents. Jose is going to be moderating the candidates’ forum shortly and because I know him, I have to tell him we are coming.

  Okay, he says.

  And with that, 100 of us from the Black Lives Matter Movement and the immigrant rights movement break u
p into two lines and enter the room where the candidates are speaking. Amber Phillips, an organizer and a woman with one of the most amazing voices anyone could ever hear, sets it off. She begins singing:

  Which side are you on my people, which side are you on?

  (We’re on the freedom side!)

  Tia Oso, a Nigerian sister from Arizona who worked with Opal’s organization, Black Alliance for Just Immigration, hits the stage first. We wanted to begin by confronting the anti-immigration, anti-human positions Arizona has taken. Tia talks about Black immigrants in Arizona and the audience begins to boo. The audience of Democrats begins to boo. I am beside myself with anger. How dare they boo her for telling the truth! My mind begins to race, trying to figure out what to do next. I am standing there barefoot because I am part of the next phase of the action. I am not supposed to be onstage but I cannot let them treat Tia like this. I run up on the stage to stand with her and yell back at the audience: How dare you boo her, boo us?! Our people are dying! We are being killed! We. Are. In. A. State. Of. Emergency!

  The audience stops booing. They start to listen. And our action continues.

  One by one each of us finds a chair—this is why I am barefoot, why we came in barefoot. And one by one almost all of us begin to speak:

  If I die in police custody, know that they killed me.

  If I die in police custody, show up at the jail, make noise, protest, tell my mother.

  If I die in police custody, tell the entire world: I wanted to live.

  * * *

  The video of our disruption makes international headlines. It is the first time I think I really understand the impact we are having. I leave Phoenix thinking about that and preparing for the Movement for Black Lives gathering that is being pulled together by a wide range of Black people and organizations that are determined to end state violence.

  The MBL gathering is only a week away and it will be the first time that all of us will be in one space together. We’ve chosen Cleveland, Ohio, to come to because it has become Holy Ground, the place where little Tamir Rice has been killed. I want to spend the next week thinking about that, thinking about our own power and what our responsibility is. But before I can settle deeply into those considerations, there comes another one, and it is ever more immediate. Noticing I am a little late, I think, what the hell?

  I take a test.

  I am six weeks pregnant.

  15

  BLACK FUTURES

  I didn’t fall in love. I rose in it.

  TONI MORRISON

  I am home, back in LA after the Ohio gathering—and I am sick as shit.

  I tell JT that I am going to take a pregnancy test. He is impassive. I don’t understand but I go into the bathroom and within seconds the tell-tale plus sign appears. I rush out of the bathroom and then over to JT. I’m pregnant! I say.

  His back is to me, facing his laptop. He does not turn around. He does not acknowledge I have spoken.

  Did you hear me? I say. I’m pregnant!

  I heard you, he says. He turns to me and the look I see on his face is fear, but also a deep well of sadness I cannot understand. I walk away, stunned, confused, disturbed.

  I don’t know how to respond to him, what to ask for, what to say. We’d talked about wanting to co-parent, even as we knew we would not be monogomous. But we had talked about trying to build a family in the midst of the madness. Why is he behaving this way? Years of friendship—we had endured the second raid at St. Elmo’s Village together!—and our recently emerging romantic relationship. I leave our home and go outside and call Future, who is one of the leads of BLM Toronto.

  Future and I met in 2014 after Ferguson, through Google hangout. We were both all about the work, all about justice for our people. And in 2014, Toronto wanted to start a BLM chapter given Canada’s own terrible history of Black people being killed by police. Most of the victims did not have guns, many were mentally ill and at least one was unarmed and suicidal at the point police shot him.

  Future is Genderqueer and I immediately took to them. The first time we talked on Google hangout, our passion was mirrored, our determination to create another world for our people was the same. Between that first conversation and the many we would have until we meet face-to-face in June 2015, a month and a half before I learn that I am pregnant, our relationship, care and respect for one another have been solid. And then we saw each other.

  I’d gone to Canada for the Allied Media Conference and to perform as part of the Pride Festival. When I laid eyes on them, I was blown away by how gorgeous they were. Google hangout did not convey their beauty fully. But I breathed through it, breathed through our chemistry, which was electric. JT was at home after all and we were talking about having a baby.

  I discussed my relationship with JT with Future, said that we were talking about having a baby. They couldn’t have been more respectful. We continued to build our relationship, the personal one, the professional one. I asked them to help me celebrate my thirty-first birthday, which fell on June 20, while I was still in Toronto, and they agreed and together we created a quiet, private space on my thirty-first turn around the sun. We talked about our families. I told Future about Gabriel. I told them about Monte. I told them how much I wanted a child of my own.

  Future told me about their childhood. They have a sister who is their twin and a brother. And they, all three, were split up by foster care; their mother had struggled with mental illness.

  It wasn’t easy, they said. And then they said, If having a baby is what you want, I will support you.

  We are Queer and cannot take having a baby for granted in the way heterosexual couples can. And soon, I will learn how true Future is to their word when JT disconnects from me, from the baby. Future is the one who is present. Perhaps the call to Future on that day is some kind of unconscious test on my part. Does anyone mean what they say? In any case, they pass. With extra credit.

  In fact, when JT rejects me, calling Future to tell them I am pregnant feels natural, feels right. Feels safe.

  We’ve known each other for such a brief period of time and I don’t know what that thing is that connects one person to another. But whatever it is, we have it.

  I’m pregnant, I say to Future that morning when JT keeps his back to me. I do not tell them this about JT though. I am embarrassed by his behavior. Embarrassed about what it might say about me.

  Future says simply, quietly, clearly, I am so happy for you. What do you need? How can I support you? they ask.

  And I exhale. Tears form in my eyes. We’re going to be okay, I think, and try to telegraph this to the tiny person taking shape inside of me.

  Days later, I have my first doctor’s visit. JT says he will come with me. But when it’s time to get ready, he will not come out of the bathroom. I won’t beg. This is crazy and not what we agreed on. I call Carla. In no time she is picking me up, taking me to the doctor. Everything is fine: the heartbeat, the growth. I’m doing this. I’m having a baby. I’m having this baby. This baby whom I am already in love with. Not long after, I have a conversation with Future—we are speaking daily at this point, but this discussion is especially significant.

  Will you be present at the birth? I ask.

  Of course, they say.

  I tell them that I am scared about being alone and pregnant and in the middle of a movement that is fighting for the lives of Black children.

  Future talks about family, about what it means to have that taken, as theirs was taken from them during the time in foster care.

  We agree that this is not the way either of us imagined we would start a journey of parenting.

  We also agree that we love one another and this magical life incredibly growing inside of me. We—we—love that baby so deeply. Already.

  Months later, after the baby is born, JT and I will commit to a beautiful, restorative mediation process and I will learn about the grief he had been hosting privately, grief he didn’t know how to discuss or understand. His gran
dmother, to whom he was so close, was near death, and his most treasured uncle, who was also his father’s twin, passed away. There was so much happening, he will say to me. There was all this public grief and I couldn’t find space to understand my own personal sadness, my individual loss.

  Post-partum and for the baby, we will promise to work for peace, but in the moment of pregnancy, we struggle, and almost immediately, JT and I stop living together. I spend the first trimester of my pregnancy couch surfing. Mostly Carla, always Carla, holds me down. As often as I can, I am in Toronto with Future, who is caring for me in a whole way. They are making sure I am eating. Helping me through my ever-present nausea and exhaustion. We are rising in love.

  For the first time in a relationship, I feel completely taken care of. Emotionally, physically. Spiritually. I’ve had pieces of this in all my relationships but never the whole package, never the whole thing. Until Future. We find a two-bedroom apartment in West Hollywood that we love, an apartment with windows that have views. This will be our home, we determine, but we have to first transition Future from Toronto.

  When I am five months pregnant we are ready to fully make the move but we spend time, first, on vacation in Toronto. During our stay there, Future tells me that one of their best friends is getting an award. They buy me clothes to attend the ceremony, a fitted black dress, and even five months pregnant, I feel gorgeous and sexy in it. We get into Future’s car and drive to their friend’s house to pick them up. Weird, I think. Why don’t they have their own transportation, I wonder, though fleetingly.

  And then we walk in the house. Everyone yells, Surprise!!!!

  Future had brought 15 to 20 of their closest friends together and I think, Wow. They have community like I have community. For months our relationship has been so one-on-one, so internal, but here they are with all of their people. I think we are having a going-away party for Future, who is on their way to living with me in LA. But then all of a sudden Future thanks everyone for coming, for supporting them, for supporting us, and then they drop to one knee in front of me and say, Patrisse, you are the love of my life. I knew it from the day we met. Will you marry me?