I see the hate in their eyes when I close mine. Also, the smirks. And hear the laughter.
It’s been three weeks since my arrest, and I still see their faces. A few showed compassion, even sadness. But I wasn’t sure if it was for me or for them; for the realization that when they chose to put on a badge, they joined the most powerful gang in Los Angeles.
I am a 46-year-old man and the head of a philanthropic foundation. But I’m still afraid of the police.
I tense up every time I see a cop. I’ve been pulled over many times for driving while Black. I know how warm the hood of a police car feels when you’re being searched. Those who are supposed to “serve and protect’’ have treated me as less than human.
So, when another Black person is murdered by the police, I don’t just watch the horror on television. I scream. I cry. I get angry.
My inbox is flooded with the requisite, “I’m so sorry. I can’t even imagine what you are feeling.” What I’m feeling? What about what you are feeling? This should hurt you deeply. You shouldn’t hurt just for me or your Black friends. We’ve done such a good job at segregation in America that we even segregate pain.
Another Black person is lynched in America. People write skillfully crafted letters. People protest.
I was protesting, too, when I was arrested by the Los Angeles Police Department about five blocks from my apartment.
I was officially arrested for breaking a curfew, ostensibly put in place to stop looting. I did see opportunistic mobs and reckless youth break into stores downtown, and even some anarchists looking for a fight. But the police did nothing. Instead, when the chaos was over, they targeted peaceful protestors holding signs and chanting in front of police headquarters. We were old and young; Black, brown, and white; trans, gay, straight, and gender nonconforming; rich and poor.
How It Happened
As the clock approached the 6 p.m. curfew, the police ordered everyone to disperse. We complied — some hastily and others lingering, still taking in the moment. We were in the line of sight of an army of cops and National Guard in full gear, prepared for war. I was one of those who lingered, taking photos. At 6:15 p.m., I was a few blocks from my apartment when I was met by yet another line of cops in riot gear — blacked-out body armor, helmets, cans of pepper spray, rifles slung over shoulders. I told one of them that I was heading home and that I was instructed to walk in this direction. He replied with a smirk. A group of officers rushed from around the corner and formed a tight line in riot position. I was trapped, along with about 15 other stragglers. There was no place to go and no impulse to run. We were peaceful protesters. Our only weapons were our voices and a few cleverly worded signs. And, of course, our cellphones to bear witness.
We were told to sit down with our hands on our heads — until the plastic zip-tie handcuffs came out and our hands were forced behind our backs. After an hour of sitting on the curb with my hands cuffed painfully tight, we were loaded into a transport bus. We drove for a few blocks and were told to get off and stand facing a graffiti-tagged wall. Eventually we were allowed to turn around. I was relieved to see the crowd around me and the determination in everyone’s eyes. I think I cracked a smile under my face mask.
The smile didn’t last long. A group of cops noticed the words on my T-shirt: “I’m rooting for everybody Black.” I am — always. A white cop called his buddies over, also all white, and pointed at me in my handcuffs. They all laughed.
In that moment, it didn’t matter that I graduated from MIT. That I’m the child of Jamaican immigrants who believed deeply in the promise of America and did everything possible to give me a better life. It didn’t matter that I am the executive director of a philanthropic foundation with a fancy office on Wilshire Boulevard.
A Latinx sergeant told me that my T-shirt was racist. I wanted to tell him that I actually root for him, too — another person of color operating in a system that isn’t designed for him.
An Ex-Marine Offers Safety Equipment
A fleet of transport buses finally arrived. About 30 or 40 of us climbed in. Most were young, but a few older folks were in the mix. There was a pair of Latinx college kids and a homeless Black man, probably in his 40s. It’s unclear if he was actually protesting or just got caught up in the turmoil. A white 26-year-old Marine Corps veteran was also with us. He wore a cheap Batman costume with a Red Cross symbol on his midsection to indicate that he had supplies and safety equipment for the protesters.
It was freezing, and my wrist and shoulders ached from the contortions needed to squeeze onto the bench in the bus. Social distancing was out of the question. Nothing the police did that day indicated the pandemic was even a consideration.
After 40 minutes the bus finally left. We looked for landmarks out of the slits in the steel-covered windows and eventually realized we were leaving downtown and heading west. About 30 minutes later, we arrived at a parking lot for a UCLA facility, although it wasn’t clear where we were in the city.
It was now about 9:45 p.m. In nearly three hours, we had not been offered water or medical attention. Not a single word was spoken to us by those in charge. We shared stories to pass the time. Some folks with smaller wrists managed to squeeze out of their cuffs. A lighter was passed around to anyone willing to take a chance at melting their plastic cuffs. Despite the growing pain in my arms and wrists, I took a pass.
I’m not sure how many buses of activists and protesters went before us, but at 12:45 a.m. it was finally our turn. Hands still cuffed behind my back, another line to wait in, but at least I was now outside.
At 1:20 a.m. my name was called. For the first time, I was asked if was injured or needed medical attention.
“No.”
I was asked if I knew I violated curfew.
“Yes.”
I was told to sign the summons.
“I can’t.”
My hands were still cuffed and the one person with the cutter had stepped away. The officer escorting me looked confused and annoyed. Ten minutes later a second pair of cutters was found. My arms immediately dropped when I was cut free. I couldn’t feel my shoulders. Lifting just one arm to sign the summons was nearly impossible. I know I got through the “S” in my signature. The rest was a scribble.
At 1:35 a.m. I was escorted to the exit of the parking lot and told I was free to go.
A friend eventually picked me up, and I arrived home at 2:45 a.m. My wrists were sore, and I couldn’t lift my arms above my head. I closed my eyes, frustrated and angry. But I knew I needed the rest. I needed to be out in the streets again the next day. And the next day. And for however long it takes.
A Time of Reckoning
Fighting for social justice is my life’s work. I am committed to being on the front lines, side by side with others in this struggle. Because let’s be honest. There were probably more people who look like me on that bus than there are leading philanthropic foundations.
This is a time of reckoning for the philanthropic world, which despite good intentions has often struggled to adequately address the needs of Black and brown people with effective, compassionate, and sustained action.
On the day after my arrest, my inbox was flooded with well-wishes from colleagues and peers: “How are you doing?”
I wanted to answer with a better set of questions: What I am doing. What are we all doing? This is what I believe those of us privileged enough to work in philanthropy should do:
- Fund organizations led by people of color.
- Support organizing groups and community-led efforts in places of most need.
- Make cash deposits at Black banks and support Community Development Banking Institutions.
- Trust women and people of color with your endowment resources; invest in early-stage funds managed by women and people of color.
- Diversify your board and staff.
- Resist the temptation to sit on the sidelines. Use your voice to fight for social justice in all settings.
Being detained for several hours was an inconvenient discomfort. I have a court date in September, but Los Angeles officials have indicated they won’t pursue charges on misdemeanor cases such as mine. I’m excited to see so many young people with fresh legs willing to carry the weight of this ravaged world they have inherited. I’m proud to march alongside them, and I have no plans to stop.
