The other day, I believe it was July 17, while driving through Staten Island, I saw a gang of goons, all clad in blue, threateningly surrounding a fearful fellow who appeared to be fumbling a stuttering explanation to his menacing interrogators. They were all wearing baggy, blue khakis that were sagging downward. They must be Crips, I thought. Rumor has it that they are thugs and hoodlums, killers even. I felt somewhat discomforted.
At a closer look, I noticed that they all had gleaming badges pinned to their blue shirts, plus powerful pistols that were holstered at theirs waists. They’re not Crips; they’re cops, I surmised. And, the guns, along with other equipment, are causing their pants to descend. I felt better.
But then, one of the armed Crips—I mean, cops—placed the weaponless loner in a deadly chokehold, while another officer held his hands, rendering him defenseless. They’re going to kill him, I thought. I was certain that the other boys in blue would intervene and bring some serenity to this matter. Instead, they did nothing, which is actually something because they allowed the situation to escalate.
Later that night, on the evening news, I heard that the man died. His name was Eric Garner. He was 43.
A week or so later, I think it was July 25, I was riding in Brooklyn, and as ironically as it may seem, I witnessed another troublesome scene. This time it appeared as if a couple of brothers draped in blue were jumping another African-American male. After further scrutiny, once again, I saw that the brothers were cops. And, this time instead of a chokehold, I believe I saw the officer stomp on the man’s head with a filthy work boot. This man’s name is Jamil