To
Be A Problem In America
On an unusually warm
day in November of 2014, I remember my throat feeling raw and uncomfortable
from yelling, and not caring. Those of us who had gathered to give voice to the
slain victim were chanting, “WE ARE MIKE BROWN,” interspersed with, “THE
PEOPLE, UNITED, WILL NEVER BE DEFEATED.” Hundreds of us had come together at
LOVE Park in center city with the intention of marching from there, to the Philadelphia
Police Administration Building at 8th and Race Streets, also known as
The Roundhouse. We were going to shove our pain into the faces of those we
deemed the oppressors, lay our gripes at their feet. Ferguson, Missouri and
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania are two different places, obviously, but the pot had
boiled over, and the city of Philadelphia has problems of its own to answer for.
A recent report released by the Justice
Department notes the “undercurrent of strife between the community” and our
police force (Berman NP). And while there is currently no reliable data on
officer-related shootings to serve as reference (this is problematic in
itself), Washington Post reporter Mark Berman observes that Philadelphia’s
police shooting rate is rather high when compared to cities of similar size
(Berman NP). Besides, as far as my fellow protesters and I were concerned, the
“Boys in Blue” all represented one uniform gang of society, each city simply signifying
various chapters of the corrupt system as a whole. We, the people, were
demanding change. At the very, very least, we wanted respect and
acknowledgement. We needed to be heard.
As we walked and
chanted in solidarity, the lurking presence of Philadelphia’s police force did
not go unnoticed. As we rounded every corner, signs in hand, any number of
police vehicles and details could be seen surrounding us. But it wasn’t as
though they were trying to deter us from our mission. On the contrary, they
seemed to be wholly cooperative, at times even holding traffic so that we could
safely pass by. Upon arriving at The Roundhouse, we finally realized why. They
had allowed us safe passage and kindly guided us to its back entrance, where
administrative employees entered the building. It happened to also be
completely separated from the rest of the employees, from the cops we had come
to confront. They had kindly and conveniently directed us out of their way. We
stood together and continued chanting as a line of armed officers icily stared
on. While we passed around a megaphone
to exchange thoughts and testimonies, I even noticed several smirks and looks
of condescension on the faces of the officers. Some of them were Black, some of
them were Asian, some of them were women --- but they were all blue. And as we
began a final chant of “WE ARE MIKE BROWN,” it suddenly started to seem so
monotonous and droning to me. These people weren’t hearing us. They weren’t
seeing us. I was standing directly in front of the line, not more than 5 feet
from several officers. As I continued to repeat the words, I sought the eyes of
the officer closest to me, an African American man of about middle age. Despite
his look of grit, he actively avoided my gaze. It was at this time that I
noticed that none of the officers would dare to make eye contact, with any of
us. And as I stared into the seemingly blank eyes across from me, almost
without noticing it, my scream of “WE ARE MIKE BROWN” suddenly became, “WE ARE
HUMAN BEINGS.” Before long, the crowd had also changed its tune. Tears streamed
down my face uncontrollably, down the faces of many, yet still there was no
noticeable change amongst the officers. The only recognition I perceived in
their faces was that of a society looking out upon its problems.
In How Does It Feel To Be A Problem?: Being
Young and Arab in America, Moustafa Bayoumi provides the narratives and
perspectives of several young Arab-Americans in the age of the War on Terror. In one particular story, that of a young charismatic
boy named Akram, violence met with anger. Akram was just beginning his senior
year of high school when the 9/11 attacks happened, and his early reactions
were visceral. He listened to classmates demand revenge, insist that America go
and “bomb them,” whoever “them” was. Akram was sad at first, bursting into
tears after listening to many of his classmates casually speak of eradicating
entire countries . Later, he became angry, punching a glass
cabinet and storming from a classroom. “What’s going to happen to us now?” he
thought . Almost instantly he realized what these events had
meant for his people, for his family and fellow Arabs. He knew that they had
become a recent addition to the list of America’s problems.
This story, and
many others in the book, leave me with a feeling of solidarity. Though African
Americans have been a problem in America for a long time, since, in fact, there
was an America, we are not the only ones who feel as though we are a difficulty
in this country that needs to be solved. Being a problem in America means not
being seen and not being heard. It means that many times, your life, and the
life of those like you, is viewed as disposable. It means being angry,
confused, frustrated and afraid. Very afraid. Afraid that there may be no
future for you and your kind in this land of the free; in this land that was
truthfully, never the land of my people to begin with.