I am still a little wary of riding the number two IRT train. Remember Bernard Goetz? He repeatedly shot four unarmed Black children in the ’80s in New York, even after whatever exigent circumstances existed had past, and he got off. ‘Bernie’ shot them on the same train I used to travel on between the Bronx and Manhattan to attend Hunter High School, a free school for the gifted. Three decades later, I now realize that my African-American parents risked everything, including my safety to afford me an educational opportunity granted to a select few.
Race has always been a major factor in my life. My deceased father, a Harlemite, graduated with a degree in physics from a Historically Black College, yet found himself having to sue his first employer, a Fortune 500 company, for racial discrimination in the ’70s—pre-Texaco. Needless to say, my dad was not too keen on the idea of me attending an overwhelmingly white school, gifted or not. But for my mom’s insistence and the fact that there was not a comparable school in the Bronx, I would not be a Hunter alumna if my dad had his druthers.
My father frequently made me walk with him from my school at 94th and Park to 125th Street and Lexington Avenue before boarding the train to the Bronx to keep me rooted. He would wax eloquently on inequality and the disparate treatment of Blacks versus Whites in our society. The opulence and cleanliness of the beginning of our route versus the filth and blight of the endpoint served to punctuate my dad’s teachings.
While my white classmates’ lives seemed to be filled with choices and endless possibilities, the metes and bounds of my existence were made clear early on. I could not experiment with drinking, let alone any illegal substances, not because doing so was bad for my health, but rather because “when the cops come, they are going to take you, the little Black girl away.” In the aftermath of the killing of Michael Griffith and Yusef Hawkins, I could not travel to Queens or Brooklyn by myself because as a Black child, I was obviously not welcomed there, and doing so may have led to my death. Central Park was off limits to me, not because I might be assaulted or raped, but because of the fabricated “wilding” incident, which proved that it was just another place that I didn’t belong as a Black child. My parents forbade me to sign any petitions, fearing retaliation from some omnipotent group that would thwart my chances for “success.” As a child, I resented the limits of race. However, as an adult attorney practicing in Harlem, I now know that I am so lucky and grateful to be alive, due in large part to my parents and their honest and constant dialogue on race and inequality.
Ironically, I did not watch any of the George Zimmerman Trial. I just knew. Poor Travyvon Martin was found guilty from the jump—after all, he was young and Black; how dare he just “be”? All attorneys—especially Black ones—know that there are at least four standards of justice: one for white people; one for Blacks, Hispanics, Muslims and other ethnic and religious minorities; one for the wealthy; and one for celebrities. There may be some intersectionality between categories, but generally speaking, that’s the reality in all matters—whether criminal or civil—before any court. We also know that there isn’t a “race card.” No endless credit or debit card is given to Blacks in America based on the atrocities of slavery and the inequities that linger. Rather, it is that same immutable characteristic that to this day predetermines socio-economic outcomes and justice in America.
Will there be justice for Martin? I wonder. My former law school dean John Sexton always said that “law is definition.” Well, how do you define “justice”? After four years at Harvard University, where I was a student in professor Michael Sandel’s justice course, and three years at New York University School of Law, I still don’t know how to define justice. In the aftermath of the verdict and the legal morass that will ensue, a Black child will still have been hunted and killed, his possibilities as well as his voice snatched away and his killer set free, the beneficiary of de facto skin-color apartheid.
I miss Gil Noble, the author of “Black is the Color of My TV Tube” and former television host of “Like It Is,” and my late, great distinguished law professor Derrick Bell. Yes, rest in peace Andrew Breitbart; I too hugged Derrick Bell. Given the unjust and unwarranted killing of Martin, as long as it wasn’t pre-empted for the must-see golf matches, Gil’s show would have undoubtedly featured the case each week, from the first week of Martin’s death, to the verdict and thereafter. Critical race theorist Bell would have lent his gravitas, his soft-spoken yet undeniably powerful voice and legal analysis to the goings-on in the case. The day after the verdict, I went in search of a huge rally at the State Office Building—after all, Harlem has a critical mass of young Black boys. Instead, I sat at the base of the statue of the late Congressman Adam Clayton Powell Jr., feeling hurt and empty, longing for my dad and the other greats who have passed on.
The murder of Martin and the acquittal of his killer screams that we have not transcended race after the election of Obama twice over. Many of us already knew this, but for those of us who don’t, the tragedy that is Martin is the death knell of that fantasy. While the president courageously broke his shackles of political correctness, decorum and the undue restraint of his office and gave a 19 minute monologue on race, the experiences of 17-year-old Obama and Martin and spoke to his shared sadness and the quiet rage of the Black community, arguably, the leader of the free world is still treated as a Black boy in America. Republican Congresswoman Michelle Bachman has called for the president to be “spanked,” and at least two other U.S. legislators have shaken their fingers in Obama’s face in a condescending and disrespectful manner. Given this context, what would justice for Martin truly look like?
My Harlem-based law firm is flanked by two public schools. I watch the way the police interact with Black and Hispanic children every day. The way law enforcement forces kids off the block at 2:30 p.m., it’s as if they are being prepped for the prison yard. While I am not a parent, I have repeatedly questioned the police and intervened when necessary. Ironically, the common retort of police officers when I have inquired about this corralling of Black and Hispanic children and stated that this was not the practice when I was a teenager, is that whereas it isn’t necessary to do this on the Upper East Side, there are multiple schools in this area, and there are “bad kids.” Somehow, I think there are more “bad adults” then there are “bad kids” in this world. In fact, my law firm partner, Angelica Thomas, and I have given the keynote address at the commencement ceremonies of two “failing” schools in New York City. Our conclusion was, we have failed our children. Every single adult in the land has failed our nation’s children.
Given the inequities great and small, my fear is that there will be no justice for Martin. I am so moved by the legions of people rallying on behalf of Martin around the world. After all, the most important work regarding race has to take place among the body politic. While I pray for Martim’s family, I am not sure whether our legal structure as it exists can ever mete out a just result for a little Black boy. In a country where unlike their white counterparts, Black children are imprisoned as adults at alarmingly high rates; where every Black child is presumed guilty; where a Black child is not permitted to perform a basic rite of passage such as going to the store by himself without being shot dead; where on paper, everyone is equal, yet in reality, inequality is so pervasive that juries of true equals are extremely hard to come by and unjust results are commonplace.
To ensure that Martin did not die in vain, each and every one of us must engage every day. We must not rest on our laurels and limit our activism to the “who got next” nature of electoral politics, albeit important. Thankfully, we don’t have rogue neighborhood watchmen running around Harlem and most of New York City. Yet it is essential that we engage our young people and each other. If we witness a practice or become aware of a policy that is unjust, we must question it. Intervene. Be not afraid. Don’t look to your left or right. Lead the charge; you be the change agent. There is no such thing as being too busy to protect the children of our community. Many of the solutions to eradicating inequality and creating a safe environment where our children can thrive will be time-consuming and inconvenient. However, the need to engage is urgent, because the threat of many more fallen Martins is real.
This article was originally published in 2013
Tyreta Foster, Esq., is a partner of the law firm of Foster, Lynch & Thomas LLC and a board member of the Correctional Association of New York , a lead proponent of the Raise the Age Campaign to end the practice of charging children as adults in New York state.