Wednesday, November 26, 2014

Your History, My Cage

Mampos meggai na sina hu sangan pat tuge' put hafa masusesedi giya Ferguson

Lao fihu hinalang yu' ni i kuentos otro.

Sesso i mas a'gang i mas taitiningo' lokkue'.

Para i gaihinasso pat gaitingo' na taotao fitme esta i sinangan-na yan hinengge-na.

Ti guailayi na u essalaogue i batkada.

Lao gi i tiempon pa'go, guaha meggai na prublema siha giya Amerika.

Lao ga'o'-niha i pumalu pumupuni siha, kinu umadmimite.

Este na prublema ti ma'pos, ti antigu, ti put estoria ha'.

Este na prublema put taimanu na dumadana' ha' i ma'pos yan i pa'go.

Ko'lo'lo'na para i mangaikulot na taotao.

Para i manggaikulot, para i mannatibu Amerikanu siha, para i manattelong (black).

I estorian otro (manma'pos) i gigao-mu pa'go. 

Para siha, para hafa na ta chathassuyi este.

Lao para Hita, este na prublema siha, este na estorian hinekse i oriya-ta yan i minagahet-ta.

Guini papa' hu na'chechetton un tinige' ginen as Cory Booker, un mayot pa'go giya New Jersey.

Mange' gui' put i hinasso-na yan siniente-na siha despues di ma anunsia i verdict put anai maana Si Rodney King.

Nina'hasso yu' put este anai hu hungok put hafa masusesedi giya Ferguson.


This article was published in Volume 201, Number 52 of The Stanford Daily on Wednesday, May 6, 1992, shortly after the controversial Rodney King verdict.
by Cory Booker ’91 M.A. ’92 He is currently the Mayor of Newark, N.J. While at Stanford, he was a columnist for The Stanford Daily.

HOW CAN I WRITE, when I have lost control of my emotions? Not Guilty… Not Guilty… Not Guilty… Not Guilty.
Not Shocked–Why Not?
Five police cars. Six officers surrounded my car, guns ready. Thirty minutes I sat, praying and shaking, only interrupted by the command, “I SAID, DON’T MOVE!”
Finally, “Everything check out, you can go.” Sheepishly I asked why. “Oh, you fit the description of a car thief.”
Not Guilty… Not Shocked–Why Not?
In the jewelry store, they lock the case when I walk in.
In the shoe store, they help the white man who walks in after me.
In the shopping mall they follow me–in the Stanford shopping mall. Last month I turned and faced their surreptitious security: “Catch any thieves today?”
Not Guilty… Not Shocked–Why Not?
September 1991, Tresidder Union, back patio. A woman was struggling with her bags. “Can I help you, ma’am?”
“Oh yes, please… WAIT! You’re black.” She hurried away.
Not Guilty… Not Shocked.
I’m a black man. I am 6 feet 3 inches tall and 230 pounds, just like King. Do I scare you? Am I a threat? Does your fear justify your actions? Twelve people believed it did.
Black male: Guilty until proven innocent.
Reactions to my kind are justified. Scrutiny is justified. Surveillance is justified. Search is justified. Fifty-six blows…Justified.
Justice? Dear God…
I graduated from Stanford last June–I was elated. I was one of four presidents of my class–I was proud. In the fall, I received a Rhodes Scholarship–I approached arrogance.
But late one night, as I walked the streets of Palo Alto, as the police car slowed down while passing me, as his steely glare met me, I realized that to him and to so many others I am and always may be a Nigger: guilty till proven innocent.
I’m struggling to be articulate, loquacious, positive, constructive, but for the first time in so long, I have lost control of my emotions. Rage, Frustration, Bitterness, Animosity, Exasperation, Sadness. Emotions once suppressed, emotions once channeled, now are let lose. Why?
Not Guilty… Not Shocked.
The violence did not surprise me. If I were the powers that be, it would not have taken me three days to call the National Guard. But maybe when you’re disconnected from reality you move slowly.
Poverty, alienation, estrangement, continuously aggravated by racism, overt and institutional. Can you leave your neighborhood without being stopped? Can you get a loan from your bank? Can you be trusted at your local store?
Can you get an ambulance dispatched to your neighborhood? Can you get the police to come to your house? Can you get an education in your school? Can you get a job? Can you stay alive past 25? Can you get respect? Can you be heard?
NO! Not until someone catches on video one small glimpse of your everyday reality and even then, can you get justice?
Our inner cities are stacks of dry leaves and lumber, waiting for a spark. This is but a mere campfire compared to the potential inferno awaiting us. Conditions are worsening and the Rodney King verdict is certainly not the most egregious injustice in our midst.
Why have I lost control of my emotions? Why do my hands shake as I write? Tonight, I have no answers.
Dear God… help us to help ourselves before we become our own undoing.

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