Memoir on a Sunday of 41 Shots
Today is the day on which an immigrant named Amadou Diallo was asked to show his ID as he climbed the steps to his apartment in Harlem after a long day at work. As he reached into his pocket, the officers shot him 41 times. As he reached into his pocket, the officers shot him 41 times. His wallet still in hand, he dropped his knees- a bleeding carcass on that brownstone stoop. There was no resuscitating him.
But his wrongful death was a catalyst to my walking out of LaGuardia high school along with the students of three other specialized high schools in New York to participate in a sit-in at the mayor's office by City Hall organized within just two days. My Social Action Club was belittled by the administration who threatened us and our peers saying we only thought we knew what we were fighting for, but all we just wanted was to cut classes and skip school. Perhaps that motivated some of those that followed us, who did not yet know the details of the events that sparked this movement.
But his wrongful death was a catalyst to my walking out of LaGuardia high school along with the students of three other specialized high schools in New York to participate in a sit-in at the mayor's office by City Hall organized within just two days. My Social Action Club was belittled by the administration who threatened us and our peers saying we only thought we knew what we were fighting for, but all we just wanted was to cut classes and skip school. Perhaps that motivated some of those that followed us, who did not yet know the details of the events that sparked this movement.
The "all-knowing" adults had no idea the consciousness that was being seeded as we sang old civil rights songs on the subway and buses and sidewalks down and up across the bridges to make our dissent clear. The elders who fed us these songs gave us the strength we needed to march towards fear. Fear of what might await us at City Hall behind billy clubs and blue lines or simply our parents belt buckles when we got home. We would no longer poke our noses in anymore bullshit falling apart history books that did not reflect the revolutions we were told about orally and through song over decades, centuries, eons. That day, the youth in New York were united under one common hope ~ the revolution is here and it is here to stay.
Maybe we were being foolish and idealistic- i worried my mother would see me on TV and curse under her breath; that now I could not be elected President of the United States because clearly, I was at a protest and now the FBI would have a file on me. Funny, her immigrant sensibility and need for protection of my future was what put me there in the first place.
Thanks Mom 
E.
E.
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