No jokes, thanks

Some things have no funny side. Try as you might, smiles refuse to shape, jokes and bon mots fail to materialize and chuckles all sound hollow. Sadly, this is one such moment.

Twenty-two years ago, I was in Paris and looked on aghast and helpless as the cities on hills of the American landscape self-mutilated. The riots that followed the death of Rodney King were brutal embodiments of the hatred and distrust and discomfort that have not yet ebbed. Malcolm X and Martin Luther King and James Chaney and countless others had died in vain. I prayed to leaders that someone intervene. Someone please be smart and engineer some truth, some reconciliation. Please, please. The deaths must end.

And here we are 28 years later. White cops hate black felons and they see a potential felon in almost any black man they cross. Black residents distrust white cops and see a potential weapon of death in all nightsticks. The truces are ephemeral, blinks of tense quiet while the sleeping volcano takes a break.   

The sight of George Floyd’s desperate final moments in Minneapolis will forever be etched in the mind of anyone who saw part of those infamous eight minutes recorded. Eight minutes in which one human being slowly and deliberately choked the life out of another human being in full view of passers-by. Eight minutes when none of the other cops tried to stop the carnage. Eight minutes of a public show, an execution in all but name. An execution, not a mistake. We have not seen the now ex-cop’s face but we do know he acted like a man on a mission. We will likely never know if the mission was to extinguish life or simply to release some internalized aggression.

What we do know is America is burning. Proud, beautiful cities like Washington, DC and Atlanta are being pillaged by their own. Mayors are bewildered and saddened at the vicious cycle of violence begat from the worst type of violence. Misery, grief, looting all kicked off by a (maybe) phony 20-dollar bill.

Twenty bucks, eight minutes, at this moment at least four dead. The guy who called the police on the possibly counterfeit bill and his property under attack. Officers armed with tear gas. Interviewees stating they’re more fearful of the streets than of the virus that has felled 100,000 Americans and counting.

There is no upside. There is only bafflement and heartache. And the sense of déjà vu. Baltimore, Oakland, Ferguson, Detroit, so many cities, so much pain in just over 50 years. The responsibility and actions of that person in the White House is at stake and there will be reckoning in just five months. But for now, mayors and other local officials are playing the counselling roles, doling out rationed doses of tough love attempting to strike the balance between toughness on crime and empathy with communities in crisis.

The mayor of Atlanta, Keisha Lance Bottoms, has spoken stern and moving words to the looters. Shook up by Floyd’s terrible end, she nonetheless urged the rioters to act in the spirit of Martin Luther King. She did not speak so much as plead for behaviour worthy of the sisters and brothers who gave up their lives and livelihoods. She spoke as a mother, as an official, as a woman in pain.

There is no upside. Keedron Bryant’s lament, beautiful though it is, should not have been penned. No twelve-year-old should have to sing I just want to live.

Much political point scoring will take place this weekend. One hopes it will drift in and among intelligent proposals and reasonable debate. Considering the time and the players, the hope feels as flimsy as the tear gas blotting the cityscapes of America. But it is there, somewhere.

There will be jokes again, there will be laughter, there will be reconciliation. But for now happenings in America must be viewed as severely as, if not more severely than, the virus we thought would be the defining story of 2020.