Streets are quiet. Orioles and robins keep their beaks shut. There’s a breeze, but the leaves ignore it. The sky is bloated, but rain won’t fall. Clouds hang over Baltimore City like a lid. A coffin’s lid. 8 shots were fired in South Carolina, but murder’s deafening echo knows no boundaries.
No one is saying a word, but we’re all thinking it. It was the same in Charlottesville two weeks ago. The videos go viral. The virus at the root of this pandemic continues to spread. The dilemma is the same everywhere: Handcuffs or resuscitate? Live to die another day . . .
It’s heart-wrenching when a mother looks at her dead son and thanks The Lord. Walter Scott’s mother cried Hallelujah. Thank God technology stepped in where justice would not. That cell phone was like an angel—an all-seeing guardian angel, silent and powerless.
Yes, Thank You, God! Thank you, Gofundme, for denying this petition. Glory to Technology.
Grief is paused. Mourning will come later. For now, it is enough that there is irrefutable evidence that a mother’s son was executed in the manner reserved for traitors. Walter Scott died running away. He died like the hunted. What a price to pay for faulty break lights!
Some of my friends have sons. Black children who at ten or eleven years old could pass for fourteen, maybe even sixteen. They are athletic. They are gregarious. They love to skate around the neighborhood. They love to run. I’ve known these kids since they were born. They are our kids. We keep our eyes on them. When they ride their bikes in the street, we stick our heads out of kitchen windows to tell them to be careful. What if one day the police have to be called? What if they see the boys running?
My friends with black boy children are afraid. A heavy lid of fear hovers over their front doors. They are raising black boys who will become black men—right here in Baltimore city. Those 8 shots were not fired here, but that echo. . .
Hands up. Mouths shut. Someone somewhere is taking candid shots. There’s no time for that lesson about the birds and the bees. Give the boys strategies for staying alive: Hands up. Mouth shut. Do not run. Don’t stand. Don’t sit. Don’t leave the house.
“But mom, I’m only ten.”
“Be quiet, listen, and pray someone somewhere has a video camera.”
There’s a heavy lid over this city today. A coffin’s lid that will come crashing like an airplane. The authorities will review the black box. What will they find now?
Yes. A black box.
We need black boxes. Technology is our savior. We need to implant black boxes under our sons’ skin? Something the authorities can review before they decide not to indict.
In interviews, Mrs. Scott says seeing what happened to her son “just tore my heart to pieces.” Then she added: “I have nothing but forgiveness in my heart.” What a godly woman!
Our condolences, Mrs. Scott and everyone who knew and loved your son. May he rest in perfect peace!