Tribute to Skip Gates Upon His Arrest for Breaking into His Own House

I saw the highway patrol officer across the highway right away. We, my two daughters, my youngest brother, and I were pushing through Oklahoma City in early fall 1999. I consider myself pretty well versed in the art of spotting police. I cannot exactly tell you why, but I think mainly because I have been pulled over so many times, then let go without a citation. Aptly, I think, I find that vile and humiliating.

He must have been about half a mile up the road, headed in the opposite direction, on a six lane highway. I thought I was safe, but wouldn't you know it: as soon as he passed us, I looked through my rear-view mirror and saw him make a u-turn across the median, (dust flying everywhere) and quite awkwardly proceed to position himself directly behind us. He began to follow.

We were driving across country first to Pine Bluff, Arkansas, then to our final stop in Atlanta. I was temporarily relocating to Atlanta to complete a master's program in English. I do not look upon that time fondly now because I know how much the move would later cost me, but I digress--the cop was on my tail. He was obvious, and I was pissed.

I imagine this is the sort of thing to which people who don't have this experience cannot relate. They might wonder why I am angry. They may ask what my concern would be if I were not doing anything wrong. They may suggest that I was acting rashly. Now, keep in mind, I consider myself very sensible today. Most people who know me would say I appear cool, cool, calm--especially when pressured. A colleague of mine once told me that he'd read that that was one characteristic of an effective leader; one who can remain calm (at least appear poised) under the sort of stress that buckles others. I can remain temperate and speak clearly when under stress. But, and I say emphatically, BUT, that does not mean that I am devoid of the same emotional responses that others experience. I just know how to side step the emotion to revisit it at a more private time. This is all theoretical. When the cop in Oklahoma City pulled me over I could not contain my rage. I saw him from across the highway. I guess he saw me too.

Of course I was driving the speed limit. Of course I was not driving under the influence. Of course I was not running drugs, or guns, or anything else. I was off to school. My little brother was in the passenger seat and my daughters, 8 and 6 were in the back. There was no reason for me to have any concern, right?

Well, the cop was right on my tail as I told myself there was no reason for him to stop me. I signalled right, moved over and waited for him to pass. He didn't pass, however. He turned on his pull-over lights and ordered me on his loud speaker to pull off immediately. I did. I did not feel like I did the first time I got pulled over, at sixteen; afraid and nervous, wishing to be forgiven for my mistake--not having my headlights on during dusk (LOL). This time, at 31, I wanted to scream at him for messing with me. Him and all his lot. Constantly messing with me. I'm trying to go about my business, live my life peacefully and successfully. Always messing with me.

African Americans have a strained relationship with the law. The law and law enforcement has historically been the apparatus to which those in power relied upon to maintain their power. Law enforcement works at the lowest end of the scale of oppression throughout the world--keeping systems of brutality and exploitation in command. They have done so physically and psychologically through the use of terror and the threat of terror. That terror is exacted upon communities that do not have the power of legal recourse nor the power of voice. When no one with the power of voice, say a good attorney or an Internet blogger speaks to the conditions of those without access, no one really knows or really cares.

We can survey history and look at the examples of Emmett Till, Fannie Lou Hamer, Amadou Diallo, and the tens of thousands of unnamed and unaccounted for African Americans crushed through their experience with the American justice system. Over the course of history we have also seen furious city explosions resulting from this imbalance of power. It always starts with a stop.

Communities almost always accept this reality with the idea that if we can avoid the police, we can avoid their influence. We can stay out of the snare. Now I promise you, I did nothing wrong. The cop's red and blue lights flashed in my tired eyes and I pulled over, fuming.

He walked to the passenger side window and glared at my little brother--who by the way does nothing for a living but teach and play chess. He is nearly a grand master, yet the cop surveyed him and looked inside the car. He looked into the back seat at my daughters. I am certain he didn't think about how they ranked with their classmates or what their grandparents call them for nicknames. Little girls.

"Why am I being stopped, Officer?"

"You didn't signal your lane change."

Breathe. "Yes, I did." I cannot hold it. "I did signal. And I saw you turn around from the other side of the highway and come directly here."

He looked closely at my little brother.

"Where y'all headed?"

"Atlanta, I am a student and my brother doesn't sell drugs or carry guns."

"You've got quite a chip on your shoulders ma'am."

"I don't think I do. I know how you treat black people, is all."

"Let me see your license and registration."

"It's a rental," I say as I hand him my license.

He walks behind the car and I grab my head and cuss him out under my breath. I draw from some of the words we used in South Oxnard, California, during the seventies when we saw police driving down the block. Bacon. We were all black or brown, poor or comfortably middle class, and we all had the same feelings and experiences with the police. We did not trust them because they didn't trust us.

The highway patrolman returned, handed me my license, and said, "Thank you, you can go. You also might want to do something about that chip on your shoulder."

I pursed my lips and said, "Unh, huh." And off we drove.

Musings on The Best it Actually Gets

We rode the last five miles of the trip at no more than 7 miles per hour. So many rocks hit the bottom of the car, we forgot that modern rides were supposed to be fairly quiet and bump free. Not only did we have the noise and jolting to adjust to, we had to fight the rising heat that steamed its way into the cab all the way from Dallas, and it had pretty much worn us completely out. For my parents, especially my dad, this was the ultimate. This is where they wanted to be: Camden. We children, my two brothers and I, preferred the comfort of the city, where we could see Bozo at 3 o'clock. Camden was the country. And really, we were not quite in Camden. Camden was in town. The farm was decidedly out of town.

We had left the main highway about 10 miles and an hour earlier. In 1977, the last portion of the road to the farm was still made of red clay and rocks. Once we got off the main highway, which had taken us first through Hope, then the small Arkansas town of Camden, we turned off onto a smaller, rougher road that was more conducive to motor vehicles than the last rocky portion on which my dad had to drive so slowly. Once off the main road, all we saw were trees: Pine, Magnolia, Sassafras, Black Tupelo, and maybe even a Dogwood here and there. They lined both sides of the road and hung over to where we could grab them as the car brushed and bumped its way along the backwoods way. Everything I saw exploded with an unbelievable green--the kind of green I missed in Southern California, where the sky is lined with flat, tea brown, hoe-hum hills. I would often stare at the green trees and try to somehow save them for later. Maybe I could summon their lushness at some perfect time, after I returned home stuck with my dry desert Southern California landscapes (It would be a very long time before I appreciated them). That slightly thick viscous Arkansas green would forever ease my disposition, especially during times of tightness and worry.

We had been to the farm many times. It was almost always summer and almost always hot. As we wound the last bend in the road that opened onto the clearing, I knew not that this would be the visit above all others; the one by which I measure all childish and adult pleasures. This visit alone and forever would shape my understanding of Joy.

It must have been 85 degrees; set aside the relative humidity, which usually hovered around 80 percent. The sun shone hot but hazy, then ducked as we approached the house which sat at the end of the slow, pink, clay road that had led us through the silent southern Arkansas wood. The house opened itself up as we cracked our teeth and circled the garden that welcomed us to the homestead.

Grandmother's flower garden reached its peak at the end of June, way before the dirt got too hard and the rain man got too shy and bashful. She never let anyone down: black-eyed Susans, Queen Anne's Lace, Pale Purple Coneflower, and a little Showy Evening Primrose to top everything off. To the right of her flower garden lay her vegetable garden: perfect rows of collards, turnips, cucumbers, tomatoes, green beans, white corn, and watermelon! Oh heaven, wait a minute. We jumped out of the car, dusted ourselves off, and put our heads down looking at the ground faining sheepishness, holding out our hands to hug Grandmother and Granddad.

"Oh, how these chillren' 'dun growed!" They both would say. After hugs and cheek squeezes, "Y'all come on in and get something to eat. Know y'all tied. The chillren gone have to come back out and see what we got fo' 'em."

We went into the house after stepping through the screened porch, set up just for days like this. Folks could gather in the day, away from the flies and mosquitoes. They could just sit and talk 'bout Ms. Lena (now 98 years old, and still sewing, then selling quilts) , or the latest situation with the well water or the phone line shared by every family within 15 miles. We'd carry our bags to one of the bedrooms, the smell of sweetbutter and mothballs hanging in the air. There were three bedrooms, but no one but Grandmother and Granddad slept in any of the beds regularly. Sleep was monumental for us on the farm because we knew we had to go in early and wake up early. First, however, we would get to collapse into the cool, white sheets and down pillows and mattresses. We tucked our bags away amid the dark walnut appointments.

"Y'all Chillren go on out in the side yard," Grandmother said. And we took her command out into the yard next to the chicken coup. Next to the chicken coup, we saw a row of 5 tall, raw wooden crates, enclosed by chicken wire. Each box had a little wooden door with a knob. "Go 'head,'' She said from the back door. We, my two brothers and myself, with much negotiation, opened one box, stuck in our hands, and pulled out a gargantuan, black, floppy eared rabbit! Oh what delight! Not only was there one in that box, but every box had a floppy eared rabbit! There were more of them than there were of us. We took out three and plopped them onto the patch of grass that encircled the rabbit pens. Grandmother told us we could play with the rabbits all day if we wanted. We could even go get a little rope to walk one around. That we did.

We walked the rabbits around the entire farm, I with the big black floppy eared rabbit. Both my brothers had two white floppy eared rabbits. We walked until we ended up in the grove lined with rows of plum trees. Succulent, fat, and purple plums fell right into our hands as we played into the approaching cool of evening. On that day those rabbits played every role possible for a human to take on in scenario after scenario predominantly inspired by 70s TV.

Once the sun went down, we set a bath in the tub in the yard and filled it with water from the well. That was the best bath I ever took. And I think the most fun I ever had in one day.

We collapsed to sleep that night, not knowing that Granddad would soon not be able to see at all and that grandmother would be alone on the farm for too many years before she passed. But what gladness I took from that visit. In my life I have known ecstasy but a bit, but this one unequalled day, I know as It.

Why We Teach

     In the middle of a school year, 'round about February 15th, after winter break, but before spring break, about the time when all energy and creative thought has been mangled by exhaustion, I question why I teach.
     At the end of summer, this is never a question. Oh! It is like a miracle in spiritually highly motivated communion with students, ideas, and comrades. By the end of summer, I've let go of missing my last set of students (who I always think are brilliant; seriously) and am ready to meet some new young people, who I hope by the end will consider themselves brilliant and maybe even friends. At the end of summer, I am committed to potential exhaustion, potential martyrdom, for the sake of perpetuating the idea of perpetuating ideas. I am ready. But by mid-February, I am ready to quit: just about done with bureaucrats, and budgets, and "no"s, and test scores. Then, I must recall what I remember someone saying, "Just do what you love to do and do it with passion, and you will feel full and purposeful." I always remind myself of the why during these times. That why counters the fact that I have forgotten what drove me into high school classrooms in the first place. I remember to keep it moving, the "it" being me, because this is what I was taught to do. Every second, minute, hour, day, month, etc. of my upbringing I was taught to work, and work tirelessly, for something better.
     I was taught to always try to do what I can to help someone--especially my brothers and sisters: often penniless, often hungry, often undereducated, often without a path out of the prisons erected so long ago-- prisons that still work to bar so many of us from the explosive and elevating bliss of genuine freedom.
My mother taught me this. My grandmother taught me this. My father taught me this. So did my uncles and aunts and great-aunts and great uncles and so did my teachers. I recall this idea with some effort in February--it keeps me keeping on. This past winter, these ideas came to me much more readily, having experienced during the previous August, the kind of catastrophe which demands absolute recognition of a power greater than onesself--which delivers us, in spite of our own failures of spirit.
     It happened like this: my 15 year old, who I still consider my baby, because she is my baby, wanted to stop at the gas station to get a cold drink after her ballet class. The class was held in a hot box studio on the edge of South Hayward, California. Now Hayward is a very working class city; that keeps it from becoming completely suburban. The city struggles with this identity, because it is so close to Oakland, Berkeley and San Francisco, that one would expect it to be a semi-sophisticated city. Of which it is--semi-sophisticated. The city has its share of gang and drug activity. Property crime is not unusual. But one does not necessarily expect it.
     As soon as my daughter and I left the studio, we pulled over at the closest gas station and I gave my my little one, who was still in her ballet attire, my credit card. I parked right in front of the front door. It was an unusual August night because as the partially cloudy skies began to dim the heat of the day, they released tiny sprinkles into the settling evening. It never rains in the Bay in August.
     I realized at some point that my daughter was taking too long in the store, so I opened my car door and walked in to help her. She had apparently thought my credit card was my ATM card and tried to enter a PIN number. It didn't work and the clerk, a slender cigarette orange, middle-aged white man, smiled and said it didn't work.
"Here, just use this," and handed him my ATM card.
"Oh, that outta do it." And that was it.
"Thank you," smiled, and we both walked out the door. I got in the driver's seat. She got in the passenger's seat.
     As soon as she closed the door I looked at her and told her to put on her seat belt. As I looked at her, from over her shoulder, I saw two young men. I assumed they were young because of their slender frames and purposeful gait. They wore black hoodies as they scrambled toward my car. They both had their hoods tightened around their heads and wore sunglasses. They also had on black gloves, which I noticed because they were cinched around their wrists. I saw this and thought, "Oh those are cute gloves." I thought the hoods made sense because it was sprinkling. Then the pace and aggression of their gaits registered with me, and in a voice that hearkened all the way back to the Arkansas of my birth I said aloud, "These _______ look like they about to rob somebody." As I said that, my daughter responed, because simultaneously, the young man in the front pulled out from his waistband the most menacing huge steel-plated handgun I had ever seen, "They are."
     They sharply turned the corner away from us and rushed into the store. The evening was absolutely silent. I said, "Oh my God," as I turned the ignition key. We heard a--Bang! and a man sprinted for his life out of the store and jumped into his car. I drove away and kept repeating, "Oh my God!" I said to my daughter, "Let's pray that nobody got hurt." I pulled over at a gas station a couple blocks away and called the police. My daughter said, "Momma, let's get out of here." And I drove home, rattled.
I made a report with the police and immediately thought--and the thought has repeated itself--that it is very likely that both of those young men who robbed that store, risking their lives, and the lives of everyone around, could have very easily have been one of my students.
     I was in the neighborhood around the school where I teach. So I easlily thought about specific faces of those who tried to hide in the corners of my room, anonymously. How they tried to not be noticed, and when it was time to read or write, often struggled, not for lack of something to say, but for lack of the skills needed to say it. I think about the boys I loved having in class, who always saw straight into the heart of whatever lesson we examined. They thought critically about where they stood, and had ideas about the world which reflected my own. I immediately thought--and that thought has repeated itself--about how many of those boys had dropped out; I would see them on the street, holler at them, smile and wave. They always waved back and smiled. Then I thought about the kids, like my daughter: kids who read and write with efficacy, and will not rob gas stations. They will not scare to death little girls who look like their little sisters. Nor will they risk their own lives for short, quick pennies. They do not act hopelessly. They go to ballet class instead.
     Those young men I met that awful August evening keep me teaching in February, when the novelty has worn away and natural fatigue has set in. When I have no patience for those students who refuse to take what I think is their own pass to freedom and choice. They are the boys my grandmother first, then my mother second always tried to make us understand and feel connected to and compassion for. And it is hard at times.
     When your become their victim, from where do you summon the compassion? When they threaten your children--how do you keep believing in the idea of education as freedom? Well, I recall that August night with realism, fear and gratitude. My child is safe today. My child is educated today, but my child is also threatened by the presence of that child who knows not the freedom of efficacious literacy. I need not only feel compassion anymore. I need to be aware and keep teaching.