There’s no one out at four in the mourning
the streets are empty and all I ever want to do
is crawl back into bed and pretend that the world is not ending
one person at a time
it’s like driving through a haze of smoke
with cops and whores basking in the glow
of harshly colored streetlights and cigarette cherries
malt liquor bottles and shoes hang from a high tension wire as
I roll down the street and look back at the faces
looking at me with bad intentions
malt liquor bottles sparkle in the night and someone’s shoes
hang from a high tension wire
where warriors stare down their own reflections on the tinted glass
as we do our own drive-by
in this neighborhood
and light up the night sky once again

I know just as well as they do that we don’t belong
here but we go anyway because that’s the job
it becomes a cheap form of entertainment
on the nights when the dead are not doing their job
we are detached – mere spectators with blood on our gloved hands
and memories in our back pockets like cigarette burns
these streets make the headlines every morning
and every day I come back for more
fuck reality television
this is the news

- SJR

I keep telling myself: Every day is more ridiculous than the last. And then I wake up the next day and say the same thing. Somehow, some weird way, the world is spinning backwards at a snail’s pace. We’re still counting forward but everywhere around us basic civil rights are being rolled back as if the Wally World smiley face is on a price-slashing rampage and he’s not taking shit from anyone.

There is no retort for this – the statement speaks for itself because it is true – every day is more ridiculous than the last. It reads like a run-on laundry list of offenses. Choose your poison – there’s everything from the dreaded terror babies to the tacos of mass destruction hidden in the Southwestern U.S. and it’s all designed to make you do one thing: nothing.

We live in a world now that utilizes news and entertainment as a weapon. It does this by pacifying *the American people with endless streams of mindless bullshit and then follows it up with constant orders to consume – meanwhile Rome burns to the ground and is then neatly swept under the rug until the curtain goes up the next day. They don’t even lie about it any more – they will tell you that it’s junk yet we still crave it in increasing amounts.

We have insatiable appetites for insta-entertainment and news…to the second updates about the apocalypse, American apartheid, socialist zombies back from the dead and the terrible, horrible, unthinkable (won’t someone think of the children?!) Mexicans and Muslims that are ripping apart the very fabric that holds Pleasantville together.

But I digress – one thing that stands out in particular is the the amping up of the police state mentality and our continued subservience to just let it be. In case you have been sleeping, it’s considered a crime now to film or record the police on public property (or as a safety precaution when you are being questioned and or detained). This is due to all of the wiretap laws that went in to effect posthaste following the 9/11-mulisms-are-evil period in what was once America. Conversely, the police can and will film you (for their protection) but you are not allowed to film them. Try it sometime and when you regain consciousness in some dank jail cell somewhere, moaning about your violated civil rights, we’ll have this discussion again.

Recently, I wrote a piece about the murder of Oscar Grant that dealt with my phobia of the police. His murder was captured on film in its entirety. The cop was convicted of involuntary manslaughter despite the fact that the video shows a clear cut murder – sentencing will occur in November and I am not holding my breath for anything even resembling justice.

The brutality that the police dole out is nothing new, the technology that captures it is. No longer are people hidden in the bushes with full-sized camcorders capturing Rodney King getting a taste of police justice – these days the technology is in the palm of your hand and if the murder of Oscar Grant is anything to go by – they do not want us recording them. Ever.

Police brutality is often reported and then later forgotten. The media may or may not cover the story, money will likely be handed out to the victim and people will retire to the confines of their comfy homes, shaking their heads and drowning their sorrows with sugar-laden beverages.

Bring on tomorrow and its groundhog day-like essence – life goes on until we are halted in our tracks for five-minutes listening to the gory details of the next brutality case. Rinse, repeat, beer me.

Why would the police be concerned about being recorded doing what they are paid (by tax payers) to do? These are, after all, police officers – complete with the positive stereotypes that society allots them; they are the servants and protectors of the public – law biding, professional, impartial and good natured by job description. Need help? Call 9-1-1. Need your ass kicked for no good reason? Call 9-1-1. They would never, ever racially profile someone or, gasp…beat someone half to death unprovoked, right…?

One only needs to look at the recently released video tape of the  police beating of Micheal DeHerrera (seen above) for more evidence that people are siting by idly as the fascism train rolls by. If you watch the video segment you will see exactly why many people of color (including myself) fear the police.

DeHerrera is seen talking on his cell phone to his father (a veteran sheriff’s deputy in Pueblo, CO) while his friend is being arrested and assaulted by the Denver police (his crime was walking into the wrong bathroom at a nearby club).  DeHerrera was pleading with his father for help because he feared for his friend’s life and according to his father, who could only listen helplessly on the other line, he heard the police conspire to stop the phone call before anything else could be recorded. And then the phone went completely dead.

“They’re recording us. We’ve got to get rid of the phone.” – Denver Police.

On the video, DeHerrera is slammed face down to the pavement and then beaten unconscious by Denver police Officer Devin Sparks while the police surveillance camera – one allegedly meant catch criminals – pans to the right and away from the beating. A few moments pass before the camera pans back and resumes recording just as Sparks carries and stuffs DeHerrera into his squad car, and slams the door on him a couple of times for good measure.

To make matters worse, Sparks lied on the report and made it sound as if DeHerrrera provoked the beating with violence and resisting arrest. DeHerrera was transported to the hospital and all charges were dropped against him. His father was told by a cop that his son suffered some minor “road rash” on his face.

While the FBI is finally investigating the case (due to public outcry and pressure on the mayor) for civil rights violations, the only punishment doled out was a 3-day vacation without pay for the offending officers. Both the Denver police union as well as the city safety manager (Ron Perea) have supported the cops in question and stated publicly that they believe no wrong doing occurred.

DeHerrera’s father is beside himself with rage and disgust – not only at the way his son was treated by fellow cops but also by the lack of words he has to explain the “why’s” to younger family members who still idolize the police.

What can you say – what can anyone say any more? When have we all collectively had enough? When will people start advocating for the humane treatment of others while holding those responsible for fascism and brutality accountable? The answer is never.

We are so far removed from those black and white photos of people fighting, actually fighting for their rights. We are so far removed from the turbulence of an actual movement. We have no momentum whatsoever, no drive, no cause and the monsters driving the machines  just keep on driving – unquestioned, unchecked and unchallenged.

I have followed this case and many others like it – some of them to their predictable conclusions and I have learned but one thing: there is no such thing as justice if all you rely on is the humanity of others.

We, people of color, we who have been demonized, we who have been dehumanized, we without equal say, we who always end up on the wrong end of a police baton – we have little rights when it matters and next to none during an election year. They can be violated at any time by either the hands of jack-booted thugs or the by the blood dipped pens of politicians.

Even with the aide of clear, concise and recorded evidence – even with all of the damning proof in the world – even with the proverbial smoking gun – we are but one defiant moment away from being beaten, locked up, falsely accused and murdered.

8-19-10 UPDATE: Listen to Michael DeHerrera give his on point of view and reaction to the beating.

-SJR

*Editor’s note: I still have no clue what this phrase means

Recently, a local high school (Mandarin High) removed a book from its 10th-grade reading list due to one parent’s complaint that the words on a page near the end of the book were too shocking, vulgar, horrific, profane, the end of all civility etc. The book in question? “Graceland” by Chris Abani. The book has won numerous awards and is a popular choice for high school reading lists across the country. So why would anyone find it objectionable?

Is it the sometimes over-the-top violence in the book? No, The LA Times reports, “”Graceland” includes passages of brutal violence, but it is the sexual content of a torture scene that the Florida mother found objectionable.”

Fair enough…this isn’t porno we’re talking about here but literature – celebrated, award-winning literature. One parent becomes outraged at a single page in a book yet there are innumerable advertisements, films, songs and print ads that are just as sexually suggestive and or violent that kids get bombarded with daily. Helen Lovejoy is not beckoning for anyone to please think of the children when the film “Kick Ass” is heralded by teens so why is the book so offensive?

One would think that the English teachers that selected the book for the reading list had a sinister agenda…that it’s all a ploy to turn the children into sex fiends with a penchant for…literature?

We allow our children to be exposed to all sorts of questionable things in the entertainment industry but when it comes to literature we become uptight and reserved. “I don’t want little Johnny reading that trash!,” says parent X while the kids do their homework with “Desperate Housewives” playing in the background.

It’s important to note that the book was not “banned” from the high school but merely removed from the mandatory reading list. It’s also important to note that 10th-graders are in the 15-16 age range. When might Abani’s book be age-appropriate?

Instead of one parent talking to the teacher and restricting her own child from reading the book in question, now none of the students will read it. Parents should be celebrating the fact that kids are reading at all and possibly discussing the real world, where things like torture actually happen to people. Instead we are increasingly wanting to offer a sanitized version of the planet with gumdrops and smiley faces everywhere.

It is easy to say that the issue has been blown out of proportion but if one parent can get a book removed from a reading list how difficult would it be for another? How long before we are back to banning books and burning them because parent X does not agree with the content? Bottom line – it’s a book and a celebrated one at that. It’s supposed to be open for interpretation (good and bad) and cause for critical thinking in young minds. They could be reading much, much worse…or not reading at all.

Instead of letting the work (as well as the students) speak for itself there is no discussion, no pros and cons, no debate to be had, no critical thinking – there is no permission slip process – nothing. The book is simply tossed aside as perverse material and we move on. While the school may say that there was no censorship because the book was not officially banned, the message has already been sent to the students and the damage done.

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I’m not sure what compelled me to do it – perhaps it was that small voice in the back of your mind – the one that tells you do things in a reserved and cold tone. I could not have been older than eight – old enough to know right from wrong. I was told at an early age to defend myself as needed. My father insisted that I not allow myself to become a victim to bullying and up until that day I was unscathed. But what happened was something else entirely; it was something from deep inside that wanted to lash out and I would become all too familiar with it in the years to come.

When I was little my grandparents would babysit my brother and I while my mother took classes at the local University. They had a modest home in the suburbs and I have fond memories of that time. My cousin and I would play in my grandfather’s camper or go to the nearby park. It was only when my cousin was not around that I would get into trouble.

Down the street, at the end of the cul-de-sac and next to the entrance to the park, lived an older boy whose name I cannot remember. I must have befriended him at some point but the only time I can ever remember seeing him is the time I almost killed him.

He was much larger than I was and in my memory, sinister looking – the way you would expect a bully to look – stocky, disheveled hair, a menacing grin on his face and lunch boxes for fists. I do not recall how it started but at some point he began to throw rocks and taunt me. I ran back to my grandparent’s house, pelted the entire way by small stones. Some of them hit me in the legs and some in the back. With tears welled up in my eyes I remember the boy’s shit-eating grin – he was enjoying himself immensely.

When we reached the house the rock-throwing stopped. He either grew bored with my torment or he was afraid of getting caught. Without saying a word I waited for him to turn his back to me. In my mind, I had already calculated an opportunity to exact my revenge – I knew, however, that it would only come were I patient. With insults still emitting from his crooked mouth he eventually started to walk back to his house.

My grandparent’s home was flanked with red masonry bricks that were half-buried in the ground to serve as a border for the lawn. I saw that one of the bricks near my shoe was loose enough for me to pick it up. As he turned his back to me, confident that he had asserted himself (and probably already planning worse), I made my move. He lurched down the sidewalk, back to the safety of his home as I calmly and silently picked up the brick and walked after him.

The weight of the brick was impressive and it felt the way I expected it to: dangerous. Without saying a single word I hurled it with as much force as my body could create. It hit him squarely in the back just below his neck.

I remember vividly the noise that forced its way from his throat. It was the kind of noise that a person makes when pain sends you reeling into the abyss of panic. It was not quite a scream but it was close enough – not all that different from the way a dog sounds the moment a car rolls over it.

He fell forward and crashed to the pavement in a giant and dull thud. I stood there for a moment watching –  he was lifeless; a crumpled mass with blood pooling from underneath his head and running into the gutter.

I said absolutely nothing. I only looked on to see if he would twitch. He moaned at first and then began to wail and heave in deep breaths. I felt neither remorse nor a sense of urgency. I casually turned away, walked into the house and waited for the inevitable.

At that age I had no concept of the gravity of the situation. I knew that I would be in trouble but I also knew that the little bastard had it coming –  he had pushed me too far. It was one of the earliest times I can remember being pushed to the edge and allowing instinct to take over.

What happened next is a blur of memory. I never saw the boy again. I walked past his home numerous times but we never crossed paths. I don’t think I seriously injured him but that’s beside the point.

I was punished and my grandparents talked at length about what to do with me. My grandmother was furious – she yelled and waved her hands around and said I would be lucky if the boy was ok and what the hell was the matter with me? Was I trying to kill him? Why did I not run for help and who gave me the idea?

My grandfather feigned anger but winked at me when my grandmother was not looking. “Good job, son,” he said under his breath while he received the third degree about encouraging my behavior.

The truth is that no one gave me the idea. I simply reacted. My mind went blank and laid out a plan of action: hurt him. It satisfied something deep inside of me that I have only just begun to scratch the surface of.

The police were not involved and no one was sued. It was something that was never discussed again. I have thought about the boy over the years, always wondering what happened to him. Had the event changed him? Does he still think about it? I’ll never know.

It would not be the last time I acted upon a violent instinct.

©2010 Santino J. Rivera/Broken Sword Publications LLC

Why am I still nervous when a cop
pulls up behind me in traffic?
I have done nothing wrong
there are no warrants
no all points bulletins floating my name in the airwaves
not even an unpaid parking ticket
yet I look into the rear view mirror and see
hard eyes hidden by mirrored sunglasses watching every move
punching names and numbers into the computer to see if it
spits out anything worthy of his attention
despite my legal status
all of my papers are in order
neatly tucked away in the glove box
the radio is not loud
my tires are normal
there are no empty beer bottles littering
the floor of my suburban friendly vehicle
So why the butterflies in my stomach?
I am unassuming and nonthreatening
in every way but one: the hue of my skin
my children are with me, safely in their car seats
unaware of the sudden panic in my heart
I am a grown man
I have nothing to hide from “the law”
except maybe contempt
and the kind of bitterness
evolved from a lifetime of mistrust
Pavlovian baton beatings
murderers with badges
who receive slaps on the wrist and
the constant fear that I am but one
false move away from losing everything
in a moment of protest

©2010 Santino J. Rivera – Broken Sword Publications

*Dedicated to Oscar Grant and all of the brothers and sisters who have been murdered just like him.

They stabbed a guy here for $3 yesterday
the paper said the kids who did it were looking for gas money
and answers to questions never asked
Action News shoves a microphone in the victim’s face
they want to know how he feels,
even as he bleeds to death in the middle of a busy intersection
where the people are too preoccupied with their phones and coffee to care
the family wants to know why and
the camera’s eye turns to the audience
who has already changed the channel in search of the next fix

this all goes down on a daily basis
here in the jungle
where there are no bookstores to speak of
on the Black side of town
but there is lots of prayer to quell the masses
as their words of faith drip like molasses yet fail
to wash away the blood

city officials balk at progress
at relief
at grief
at anything other than a psalm
to restore the calm
among a city burning in flames and
drowning in ignorance

we all reap what we sow and when
suburbia no longer offers the protection of White flight
when the whole world is a ghetto
and not a soul can read
we will all say our prayers,
as meaningless as the ones whispered now
meant to serve as some kind of tourniquet
to the bleeding
and as useful as a $3 bill

©2010 Santino J. Rivera – Broken Sword Publications

From the forthcoming book “Bullets, Bibles and Other Tales of Southern Justice”

I look back on it all now
as the difference between poetry and war
like blood inside a glass of water
diluted and free flowing, poisoning
my thoughts fluid and tainted
my heart as cool as glass
hollow as the words that
spill out of your mouth
and into the gutters
of a different time, different place and different disposition
I walk with ghosts no more

Originally published in Demon in the Mirror by S. Joaquin Rivera

The secrets we have held in our hearts
for many generations evaporate
into the mainstream consciousness
and are consumed
like so many others before them

We discover that the People,
the ones we deemed as enemies for many years,
find those secrets, our secrets, beautiful and mysterious
so long as they discover them
and without hearing them pass though our own lips

Originally published in Demon in the Mirror by S. Joaquin Rivera