You remember being 11? Remember how disjointed your world felt? The large spaces between the playground, the classroom, the kitchen table, the TV and your favorite bit of floor to spread out and do homework on? Do you remember how things filtered through one sphere to the other?
Tuesday night at dinner E said the most bizarre joke…
“Hey mom, what’s the only chair in a rock band?”
“Uh… no idea.”
“The Electric one. Heh, isn’t that funny?”
What in the hell? Oh, wait. I get it. No the joke makes no sense and is not funny, but it is indicative. This is how the playground is responding to the news about Troy Davis. Jokes about Electric chairs.
“Do you know why that’s not funny?” I ask him. He knows. It was just his 11 year old way of segueing our dinner conversation to something unpleasant and scary. I ask if anybody at school has mentioned what’s happening in Georgia with Troy Davis. He says no, but there’s been lots of zapping and pretending to kill each other. Cue the internet. I pull up Troy Davis’ letter sent out on his behalf. His words came to me via facebook pages, twitter feeds and tumblr blogs, but the exact source I’ve never seen.
I have E read the words of a man condemned to death for a crime he didn’t commit. He says it’s horrible, that it makes no sense, and how is this ok? I tell him that legal codes based on an eye for an eye are ancient. That our own legal system believes in justifiable murder. He interrupts me and says, “Mom you can’t honestly tell me you’re against it, because I know you and I know that if someone hurt me, you would kill them, it’s a mother’s instinct to protect her children. So, even though this is horrible, please don’t be a hypocrite.” He cocks one eyebrow just like I do when I know I’m right.
“No, I won’t be a hypocrite. But is this the same thing?” I ask him if he thinks our legal system treats everyone the same, if every life is considered equally important. I ask him to think about racism in this country, in our city. We talk about Oscar Grant being killed by a BART cop. We talk about the way people from other countries who don’t have the right paperwork are treated here, how they are labeled to be seen as not human to make it ok to treat them inhumanely.
Wednesday I was busy busy busy. Between meetings in the city I listened to Democracy Now, read friends posts, followed links they were sharing. As I sat in the waiting area at 4pm and read that the SCOTUS had chosen to review the case one last time before allowing the man to be killed, I thought about the conversation I was going to have with the boys. I wondered what impact this internationally recognized injustice would have on them. I thought back to parts of my childhood when there was outrage, when I felt a collective outcry, when I gained an understanding of social justice. I drew a blank. I couldn’t remember any.
I grew up during the Reagan administration. I remember my grandmother boycotting grapes because the excessive amounts of pesticides used in the fields were poisoning laborers and causing miscarriages. I remember gangs and drugs and every family I knew being on welfare. I remember mass evictions and meth labs exploding and school districts imploding. I do not recall being a part of a collective criticism or even a recognition of injustice.
I get out of a meeting, heading off to an event at the SF LGBTQ Center, when I read that Troy Davis was executed at 8:08pm pacific time. Why the fuck did they bother to review the execution order? Is the first thing I ask myself out loud to the empty block of Market I’m walking down. Cruel and unusual the street answers me. I’m in the audience for the Q&A with an amazing porn director, Shine Louise Houston. I’m unsettled, and jumpy and easily aggravated.
I get home after the boys are in bed. I check in on them and see that E has a peace sign written in purple marker stained on his cheek. My mom says they were fine, nothing major. I read some more before I pass out. I wake up from bad dreams that leave my jaw aching to E at the foot of my bed. His face is lit up and excited, like he’s been waiting all night to tell me something.
“Mom! We had a peace march yesterday! After school we all got together with the teachers and staff, we made signs and bandanas and marched with musical instruments. I made a sandwich board that said ‘Oscar Grant, Troy Davis and many others lost their lives and did not get the justice they deserve,’ on the front and on the back it said ‘That is why I not only walk for peace, but I walk for justice!” We had a moment of silence for Troy Davis at 4pm, some of the girls cried… but did you hear he’s alive? My teacher said the Supreme Court saved him!”
and fuck.
“That’s great honey, I am so proud of you. But, uh, he’s not alive. They killed him.”
“What? No, my teacher told us…” face crumples, light dimmed, fists balled.
“It was just a temporary hold so that they could review the order or something…” I close my eyes, rub the muscles in my chin with the palms of my hand, “They only postponed the execution by a few hours. He was killed 8 o’clock our time. I guess your grandma didn’t want to tell you.”
“Then why the Hell did they even bother to do… to do… whatever they did!” It’s cute to me when E stutters and swears.
“Good question, hon, I don’t know why.” I”m trying to be comforting without sugar coating the truth, without dampening his outrage. He should be mad. We all should be mad. 11 year olds across the country should be mad that this is the legal system that they are inheriting. And also I want him to know that it’s a big commitment to change. I tell him I’m proud of him for participating and for using his voice, and that is all an 11 year old can be expected to do, but to not forget this moment. All of it. All of the confusion and fear and anger and the how in the fuck is this ok feelings he is having.
We hug, and I know he is still young enough for that embrace to erase anxiety, he is still young enough to allow parental love to block out the world, and I tell him quietly to stay grateful, and stay aware.