CAT Tracks for September 30, 2016
A SWIFT KICK IN THE CONSCIOUSNESS

Former Cairoite, Rachel Jones, writes...


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A Swift Kick In The Consciousness: How a Charlotte, North Carolina Street Encounter Woke Me Up About America's Racial Angst



Rachel Jones
One of LinkedIn's 2015 Top 10 Media Writers
International Development Media Consultant


A Swift Kick In The Consciousness: How a Charlotte, North Carolina Street Encounter Woke Me Up About America's Racial Angst

Sep 29, 2016

Yesterday evening, I got kicked in the leg by a mentally ill black man on the corner of South Tryon and West Third Streets in Charlotte, North Carolina. I've lived here only for about a month and a half, but I had taken a break from exploring the Queen City’s neat, spit-polished downtown streets since September 21st, the day violent protests about the police shooting death of Keith Lamont Scott rocked Charlotte to the core.

At around 5:30 yesterday evening, I was standing at a bus stop when an animated, bare-chested black man wearing green hospital scrub pants and red sneakers approached. If you’ve lived in any large city, you know the drill when something like that happens: be grateful you’re wearing your headphones, or start reading your book more intently, or look at your watch. Do anything to pretend this unsettling event is not about to happen. I was wearing my headphones and listening to the “Hamilton” soundtrack--but also glanced at my watch as a backup.

That black man was riled, talking to no one in particular, jerking his arms. As he approached the bus stop, he paused to speak to a woman sitting on a bench reading a book. She didn’t look up. And then he walked towards me. Maybe it was because I was the only other black person at the stop. Though I was still studying the intricacies of my watch, I knew he was headed towards me. I decided I, too, would ignore him.

And that’s when he kicked me. It wasn’t violent, didn’t make my knee buckle or raise a bruise. It was more like an insistent poke with his foot.

I had a couple of choices in that moment. I could have backed away, or started walking briskly to the next bus stop. Or I could have tried to flag down a police or security officer. There are definitely more of them in downtown Charlotte these days than usual. But instead of launching into fight or flight mode, that kick flipped a light switch. I removed my earphones, turned to face this bare-chested, clearly mentally ill black man, looked him in his eyes and barked in my sternest, faux-middle school principal voice, "Did you just KICK me???"

I’ll probably never forget that man, for a lot of reasons. His molasses brown skin was smooth and clear, and his hair was a cloud of salt and pepper tufts. If I had to guess, he was probably a few years younger than me. His eyes, bright with the sheen of psychotropic medication or lack thereof, glittered and darted, but then connected with mine. He mumbled something, and ran his hands across his gaunt, sweaty chest. But since he didn't go upside my head, I felt free to continue my rebuke.

"You have to be careful, my brother. You could get hurt. You could get cut kicking people you don't know. Or you could get shot." The man made a few more guttural noises, as his eyes darted and he tried to communicate whatever message was forming in that troubled mind.

I made a point of keeping my gaze steady, peering directly into his eyes. When he shifted his position, I shifted mine, squaring off to interact with him face to face. Though the whole encounter may have lasted a minute, it’s surprising how much can go through your mind in 60 seconds.

I thought of Rakeiya Scott, who videotaped the police encounter with her husband Keith right here in Charlotte, and the frantic desperation in her voice as she fought to accept the inevitable outcome.

I thought of the videotape of Terrence Crutcher of Tulsa, Oklahoma, who appeared to be walking with his hands up when he was shot and killed by a police officer on September 16th.

I thought of Diamond Reynolds, who was possessed by an eerily calm presence of mind while live-streaming the dying moments of her boyfriend Philando Castile after he was shot by a police officer in Falcon Heights, Minnesota on July 6th.

I thought of the videotaped July 5th shooting of Alton Sterling in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, and how nauseous I felt watching a man lying on the ground with police officers literally kneeling on him as they pumped multiple bullets into his body.

And I thought about Alfred Okwera Olango’s sister, who called El Cajon police on September 27th because her brother was behaving erratically, like the man who had just kicked me at the Charlotte bus stop. I knew Alfred was dead after that police encounter. So I decided against finding an officer to help me yesterday evening. I just kept talking to the bare-chested black man on the corner of South Tryon and West Third Streets, just a few blocks from where protests had occurred days and nights earlier.

I let the stream of consciousness flow. "I want you to be alright, my brother. I want you to live." As we stood facing each other, I could tell that the half dozen or so other people at the bus stop were bracing for something dramatic to happen. I just felt numb. But the incident ended when the man bent down and picked up a dirty crust of bread lying near the curb, and flung it as hard as he could away from the bus stop before wandering off in his hospital scrub pants and red sneakers, muttering angrily to himself. Before jamming my headphones back in, I couldn’t help noticing that a few of the people who weren’t still pretending to read their book or study their watches were looking at me like I was crazy.

Last night before sleep came, a delayed reaction set in, and I cried a bit—but not about my leg. I cried because I realized I’ve been suffering from an extended case of compassion fatigue lately, and it has crippled my writing and made me doubt myself. There’s too much to think about and care about in this world. You can’t Tweet about it all, or Link it In or Snapchat all the things that matter to you because there aren’t enough hours in the day. And while I had considered heading to the places where protests and vigils and town hall meetings have been held in Charlotte this past week to bear witness, I was tired. After all, before returning to the US in May, I’d spent nine years in Northern Uganda and Kenya and South Sudan, and I’ve had my fill of unrest. I had come home to America to try and forget what was happening “over there,” to quiet my mind. But I’ve been increasingly anxious and depressed about my homeland’s trajectory. What could I say that hadn’t already been said, how could my words make a difference?

That’s why some of last night's tears were of gratitude to the mentally ill black man who kicked me in downtown Charlotte, North Carolina, because that kick was a disrupter. It awakened my muse. It granted me a moment of stark clarity and renewed purpose. I can't stop thinking that it wasn't the nine years I spent in East Africa that made me bold or courageous or reckless enough to go toe to toe with a mentally ill black man on a busy metropolitan street.

It took just four months back in America to make me realize that in far too many ways, I am just as vulnerable as he is, and that maybe soon, he'll have a grieving sister or mother looking down into his casket. I hope he'll be okay. I know I will be, because he helped me remember that your life can end in a split second, in astoundingly tragic ways, and all you can do is try to be authentic and purposeful before that happens. So to borrow a phrase from a “Hamilton” lyric, I’m gonna start writing like I’m running out of time. Because I am. We all are. Unless we get the message about America’s racial justice disconnect, we’re all headed for a brutal kick in the consciousness.

And we won’t recover from it and move on as I did. It’ll break more than bones or storefront windows. It will break the spine of this great nation.