Tear Drops And Closed Caskets

I received a call from the mother of a client. She informed me that her son was attempting to stop a fight and was hit in the head. Now he is in the hospital and they do not expect him to live. I extended my sympathies and ask that she keep me informed. And then I tried to put the call out my head.

My client was not a gang banger. He was picked up for having some weed in his car. He was 19 years-old and a sweet kid who was a little slow. Like millions of others, he was born to a life of chaos and destined to struggle.

I have learned to shut my emotions off when it comes to the slaughter of young black men. You see I do triage. I catch them coming into the criminal justice system like wounded soldiers on a battle field. I cannot treat their main wounds, broken family, poverty and mis-education. So I try to keep the system from throwing them away and move on to the next one.

But this call has hung over my soul like rain clouds caressing a high-rise.

I have been listening to Tupac a lot this week. Tupac more than any other figure of his generation represents the tragedy of life on the streets.

Tupac was a classically trained artist who rather than glorified the thug life, rapped of the pain of living a life that you do not choose. Tupac was a street poet, actor, voice for a generation, and a genius. But like Marvin Gaye and Donny Hathaway before him, he could not control his demons. So he died the young black man's death; by drive-by shooting.

One cannot help but wonder what he would have had to say at 40. We will never know and our culture is less today because his voice is not a part of it.

It is rumored that Outlawz peppered Tupac ashes in a joint and smoked it. I understand the need to try to absorb a loss. I feel it for my client. So Niggers pass the motherfucking joint. Rest In Peace Soldiers.

I know it's hard out there,
with teardrops and closed caskets
It's like that's all we got to look forward to these days
Murders, brothers dying, funerals.....
shit, it's like I done ran out of suits homey
I done ran out of tears
Know we gon' have to do somethin y'all
We gon' have to do something......
Cause I know all these mothers is tired of seeing the same thing
(rest in peace)
Teardrops and closed caskets

Tupac Amaru Shakur (June 16, 1971 – September 13, 1996)

Welcome Home Skip

I asked a friend his thoughts about Skip Gates' recent brush with the Cambridge Police. His response: it could not have happened to a better Negro. Amused, I asked him to explain. He expounded further, saying Skip has been in the "bubble" of the Academy and, even though he writes about the African-American experience, he does not "live among us." If he did, my friend believes Skip would have been more forthcoming and accommodating when confronted with law enforcement. He would have given the police officer his name, social security number, date of birth, blood type and whatever information he needed to put forth, in order to terminate the encounter with the police officer, as quickly as he could. He would have known that, as a black man, there was nothing good to come out of the encounter by trying to effectuate his "rights." You see, most African-American men intrinsically know that escalating a police interrogation can lead to arrest, an ass-whipping or heaven forbid, death as in "Sean Bell."

But let's be clear: what happened to Skip Gates was unacceptable.

Skip has been an influential intellectual in America and deserves every accolade he has received over his illustrious career. His work incorporating DNA technology to trace African-American ancestry has been an important step in helping blacks understand who we are and, just as important, where we come from.

However, Skip has always been a company man at Harvard. When he announced his intent to assemble the preeminent Black Intellectual Think Tank at Harvard, I thought that was the statement of a confused individual. First of all, why would you want to build the preeminent black intellectual Think Tank at a white institution that erected its endowment on slavery? Why would you construct the premier Black intellectual Think Tank at an institution that triggered student protest for its failure to tenure a black female professor at its law school? But most important, what made Skip believe Harvard and its illustrious alumni would ever allow the "preeminent" black Think Tank to engage in honest dialogue about race and power in America?

Predictably, one by one, the scholars Skip amassed left disillusioned. The last and most prominent recruit, Cornel West, was summoned to former Harvard President, Larry Summers' office and told his work was subpar and was further admonished and ordered to cease recording rap records. According to West, in his book Democracy Matters, Skip effectively threw him under the bus by remaining silent. When there was a vote of confidence on Summers’ tenure, Skip backed the former president.

Although Skip has written eloquently about the black experience in America, he has chosen to live in the King’s court. There was always an intellectual distance between Skip and the black America he wrote about. Haki Madhubuti , in a searing essay, remarked that if Skip Gates chooses to write about us, he should at least come among us.

If he had shared in the day-to-day experience of everyday African-Americans, perhaps the public humiliation he faced at handcuffs of cops would have been less of a shock. Yet the only one that seems surprised that Skip was treated like a nigger is Skip. The sad truth is: most black men in America have had a Skip Gates moment.

My second year of law school, I walked down the street in my hometown, feeling really good about myself after earning 3.8 GPA at Tulane. I had a column published in USA Today and had appeared on McNeil Lehr to comment on the governor's race in Louisiana. I was feeling the difference between me and the poor, Larry English. To my surprise, a white police officer stopped me and asked me to get up against a wall and show my identification. Still astonished, I inquired why? She casually responded that there had been a report of a black man seen breaking into a car and I fit his description. I was dressed so preppy, I Iooked as if I had just walked out of Ralph Lauren's display window on Madison Avenue.

I refused the officer’s request. She flung me against a wall. An undercover white officer driving by jumped out of his vehicle and ran to her aid. He put his elbow in my back and "said motherfucker if you move, I will kill you." Just about this time, my father, who was headed to my downtown office, walked around the corner to witness my arrest. And I began to cry.

A few minutes later, a black police officer arrived on the scene. She explained to the rabid officers that I was Larry English, a former president of the city’s National Association for the Advancement of Colored People; chairman of the Shreveport Housing Authority and a weekly columnist for the Shreveport Journal. I was let go with no apology.

In my next column, I wrote of the incident. I received a letter from a white civil rights lawyer in New Orleans. He had lots of empathy for my degradation, but warned that there was always going to be a "oh shit" moment when the police realized that I was not only a law-abiding citizen, but one with a certain "status" in town. But he also added that if I had not been "Larry English," I would still be sitting in jail for a crime I not only did not commit, but had no knowledge of, if for no other reason that I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was right.

On that day, when I was feeling so good about what I had accomplished, I was brought back home to reality of being black in America. However, even now Skip seems confused. He issued a joint statement with the Cambridge Police, saying it had been a misunderstanding, and then almost immediately, called for an apology from the arresting officer.

Skip, you can use your platform to bring down the wrath of God on the Cambridge Police. Or, you can use your incredible gifts as a teaching moment for America. You can teach her about how race, power and ignorance intersect when a black or Latino person is stopped by the police. You can use this podium to fight for the thousands of blacks and Latinos who don’t have an “oh shit” card to play. Welcome home Skip. We missed you.

Trifling Ass Negroes

We have travelled far in the Diaspora. On January 20, 2009, we will offer the world what I hope is a truly transformative leader. But lurking in the shadows is the fact that as far we have come as a people, we got so very far to go.

This past week I sat in a tiny jail cell with a client. He pressed me hard on why I could not get him a better jail sentence than twelve years. I pressed back ‘It’s your past that has put you in this position. The two joints that you unsuccessfully tried to swallow are insignificant.” Angrily he pushed back, “But I paid you, I could have got a court appointed lawyer to get me 12 years”. That is always the signal to end the conversation. “What is it going to be, 12 years or life, it is what it is” stating with my most serious face.

Then with the sincerity of a five year-old he said” Mr. English I cannot go to jail, I have nine children” I must admit that as jaded as I have become about our prospects in the 21st century, I was floored.

This motherfucker is only 30 years-old and has nine children. This I know: He has never offered any of his children any financial support. He has never taken one to a park, or read a little one to sleep. He has never looked down from washing dishes and saw almond shaped eyes staring up at him with a smile so warm that it could thaw a glacier and spoke to her in whispered tones ‘what’s up baby girl.” This predatory surf fucker has just dropped nine lives in an inner-city Serengeti and walked away.

Unencumbered by any moral or emotional ties, injecting his off-springs -you raise children- was just some narcissistic bullshit. These nihilistic street predators are always looking for an edge.

He is not unique. In our inner cities, trifling Negroes like him grow like bacteria on an elephants’ ass. The damage that they are doing to their off-springs and our society is devastating. I take no pity that his daddy was as sad a motherfucker as he. You may not choose to be born in a ditch but you stay there out of your own accord.


All of us will not cross the River Jordan.

Save The Babies

I listened to and read the corporate media’s analysis of Barack Obama’s father day speech. The analysis was that Obama had went to the Southside of Chicago and chastised black men as being irresponsible and that he did so to gain political points with white working class men. I listened to and read the snippets of his speech and I became a bit perturbed that the brother in his first speech to a black audience since capturing the nomination would use it as an opportunity to throw some of us under the bus, even if some of us needed to be. I thought his first speech to a black audience should have been thank you for the overwhelming and enthusiastic support we gave him over the last several months, not using us to gain political points.

So given my disappointment I thought I had better go to You Tube and listen for myself. I was wrong and the corporate media was certainly wrong. There is arrogance among white folks that they believe that everything that is said is meant for them. After listening to this extraordinary speech I have no doubt that Obama was not speaking to white America. This was a black man at the pinnacle of political power going back into his neighborhood to talk with his people about a serious issue facing us.

I know as an educated black man and the product of a single family, he has a heavy heart about fatherless families. I know this because my friends and I speak constantly of this generation of black men who through their lack of caring have brought shame on their children and our people.

I know this because one day in court a young man walked up to me and said “I am your nephew and I just wanted to introduce myself to you.” Stunned I allowed him to walk away without getting any contact information.

Even though I had nothing to do with this young man’s life, I feel ashamed. My brother is a worthless soul that has brought dishonor on my father by siring children and casting them to the Darwinian fate of so many black children. He robbed his son of the connection to his grandfather who drove a truck for forty years to take care of his six children and never once complained about the back breaking work. Because of my brother's behavior, my nephew's tether to the social fabric is tenuous and a difficult life of a man of color has been made even more difficult.

No, this speech was not for white folks. This was a serious, witty, deeply personal speech from a black man to black people challenging us as Chris Rock did several years ago to quit being “low expectation Negroes.”

This brother continues to amaze me.

Weeping Mothers

On Monday morning I talked with a client who was captured in Idaho after several days on the run. He allegedly killed his mother-in-law, father-in-law and stepson. After he hung up from me, he went back to his cell and tried to kill himself.

On Tuesday I argued a Motion For Post Conviction Relief that my client had a right to a new trial. Several years ago he went to a club with his friends. While he sat at a bar talking to a young lady, his friends got into a argument and almost came to blows with some other men in the bar. He and his friends then left the club. His friends returned within minutes of leaving and randomly opened fire. One of their bullets struck a innocent 19 year-old bystander killing him. My client was sitting in the car, while the shooting took place. His friends ran back to the car and what took place then is murky.

According to the State my client attempted to run over police officers who had arrived on the scene. According to my client the police randomly opened fire hitting him in the chest and almost killing him and it was only then when the car lounged forward. The State took my client to trial where he was represented by a Public Defender and was convicted of Second Degree Murder. The shooter hired a private attorney and was found guilty of manslaughter. My client was sentenced to life, the shooter got 15 years.

On Wednesday I argued for the life of two clients. One of them who was 35 years old was automatically given life as a third-time habitual offender. I had wept for him weeks earlier –I never weep after a trial- because I felt he was truly innocence of the charges, but my skills had fell short before the jury. There is no greater burden for a criminal defense lawyer than to have a client you believe to be innocent sitting in prison for life.

The other co-defendant was 25 years-old and facing a sentence of 20 to 60 years also as a habitual offender. I argued with passion to the judge not to “throw the young man away” – slang the young hoppers use for life in prison. I argued that 32 percent of young black men will come through the criminal justice system. That we lock up more of our citizens than any industrial nation in the world. I pleaded that I too was once headed for a life of crime, and only by luck did I escape the black man’s mark of carrying convicted felon for life. I argued with all my skills for the judge to give the young man 20 years and a chance at life after prison

The Judge listened patiently and when he began to speak, he acknowledged the power of my words and commended me on my good work at trial. He then recited that my client had been in the gangs since a pre-teen. He had been convicted of a sexual battery on a juvenile, and at trial he had been found guilty of standing on one of the busiest street corners in the city, at ten o’clock in the morning, and fired into a car to kill a useless soul named Donut. Donut wife was in the front passenger seat and his two year-old daughter was riding in the backseat. One of the bullets missed the two year-old head by two inches. The Judge then sentenced my client to 50 years.

A week earlier I had sit on the front porch of a mother and her family who had called me because several days before her son was caught coming out a furniture store at 3 am. The Police officer who had been staking out the store, reported that her son got into his car and tried to run him over. The officer allegedly fired six bullets into the vehicle killing her son. The police waited some 14 hours to notify her and when she arrived at the hospital her son was brain dead. Doctors told her that the fatal bullet was to the back of her son’s head, which would have meant that he was shot while fleeing the scene. The Officer who did the shooting had been involved in two other shootings one fatal and all three incidents allegedly involved a car being used as a weapon. Most police officers go their entire careers without firing their weapons. The Police Chief, who is black, within hours before the Department’s internal investigation had even begun declared the shooting was valid.

This is what I do. I work triage in a war. Only my emergency room is the court room and the wounded of this war are the young black men who are at war with themselves and each other. I rarely save the whole life. I try to turn life into 20 years, 20 years into five, five years into probation.

Over the years I have grown to fear these young men as my grandfather must have feared an encounter with the Klan on a dark highway fifty years ago.

Yet, much of my life the last ten years has been defending them. These young men are not born monsters. We- all of us- raise them to be. We allow their mothers to carry them without proper healthcare. We send them to school hungry and when they become distracted by the hunger in their bellies, or the chaos in their home life, we label them mentally deficient and warehouse them in Special Education. When they enter the Juvenile Justice System there is no real attempt at intervention to remedy the dysfunction that led them into the system in the first place. Instead we begin their rapid mental preparation to spend their lives as a convicted felon or at worst years in prison

While the corporate media is fixated over flags on lapels, or whether Jeremiah Wright loves America, or who loves Israel more, another black male child is being born to a teen-age mother fathered by a worthless soul, who like his father before him will never offer any emotional or financial support. The mother, who was born into dysfunction and will pass it on to the children, will do her best but the social and economic realities of being poor, black, a teenager, and with child will overwhelm her.

One day she will sit on a bench in the back of a court room and weep softly as a judge throws her child away. At the young age of 35 she will take the hand of her grandchild and walk onto the street, she will feel the warmth of the sun on her face and say a prayer in her heart that she will not lose this one.

That evening she will sit in front of her television and in another political race hear commentators ponder on why Candidate A cannot connect with “hard working white voters”. Tears will form in her eyes as she realizes the pains of her life, her children life, her grandchildren life have no place in America’s political dialogue.

What does it say about America that it will allow another generation to grow up in this madness? What does it say about our moral compass that a debate about who wears flag pins is more important than a debate about a genocide that is happening within our own cities?

Maybe history will prove Jeremiah Wright right that God Damns America. We have certainly dammed our inner-cities.