HomeMy WebLinkAbout2016-09-27_07_00_PM-HRRC_PacketAgenda
Human Rights and Relations Commission
City Of Edina, Minnesota
Edina City Hall Community Room
4801 West 50th Street Edina, MN 55424
Tuesday, September 27, 2016
7:00 PM
I.Call To Order
II.Roll Call
III.Approval Of Meeting Agenda
IV.Approval Of Meeting Minutes
A.August HRRC Meeting Minutes
V.Special Recognitions And Presentations
A.Welcome Student Commissioners
VI.Community Comment
During "Community Comment," the Board/Commission will invite residents to share relevant
issues or concerns. Individuals must limit their comments to three minutes. The Chair may limit
the number of speakers on the same issue in the interest of time and topic. Generally speaking,
items that are elsewhere on tonight's agenda may not be addressed during Community Comment.
Individuals should not expect the Chair or Board/Commission Members to respond to their
comments tonight. Instead, the Board/Commission might refer the matter to sta% for
consideration at a future meeting.
VII.Reports/Recommendations
A.2016 Work Plan Updates
B.Indigenous Peoples Day Designation
C.2017 Proposed Work Plan
VIII.Correspondence And Petitions
A.Correspondence
IX.Chair And Member Comments
A.Flyer: October 10 Event
X.Sta1 Comments
XI.Adjournment
The City of Edina wants all residents to be comfortable being part of the
public process. If you need assistance in the way of hearing ampli4cation, an
interpreter, large-print documents or something else, please call 952-927-8861
72 hours in advance of the meeting.
Date: September 27, 2016 Agenda Item #: IV.A.
To:Human Rights and Relations Commission Item Type:
Minutes
From:Kelly Dumais, City Management Fellow
Item Activity:
Subject:August HRRC Meeting Minutes Action
CITY OF EDINA
4801 West 50th Street
Edina, MN 55424
www.edinamn.gov
ACTION REQUESTED:
Approve August HRRC meeting minutes
INTRODUCTION:
August HRRC meeting minutes
ATTACHMENTS:
Description
August HRRC Meeting Minutes
MINUTES
Human Rights and Relations Commission
August 23, 2016 at 7:00 PM
City Hall, Community Room
I.Call To Order
Chair Arseneault called the meeting to order at 7:01 PM
II.Roll Call
Answering Roll Call: Chair Arseneault, Commissioners Beringer, Edwards,
Edelson, Kennedy, Meek.
Absent: Commissioners Martin, Rinn, Student Commissioners Kearney and
Ramesh.
Late: Commissioner Vecchio Smith
Staff Present: Liaison Lamon and City Management Fellow Dumais
III.Approval Of Meeting Agenda
Motion by Commissioner Heather Edelson to Approve the September
HRRC meeting agenda. Seconded by Commissioner Michelle Meek.
Motion Carried.
IV.Approval Of Meeting Minutes
Motion by Commissioner Michelle Meek to Approve the the July HRRC
meeting minutes. Seconded by Commissioner Heather Edelson. Motion
Carried.
V.Community Comment
Jim Nelson: Thanked the commission for welcoming him as a new commission
member beginning at the September 2016 HRRC meeting.
VI.Reports/Recommendations
A.2016 Work Plan Updates
Commissioner Edelson reported on the committee's progress for the sharing
values, sharing community event. The Imam who was invited is no longer able to
do the event Imam Asad Zaman agreed to participate. The committee is working
with city staff on the poster to advertise the event.
Commissioner Vecchio-Smith arrived at 7:05.
Commissioner Vecchio-Smith reported on the Community Conversations
Committee's progress on their report which is still in progress.
Page 1 of 3
DRAFT
Commissioner Beringer reported on a meeting she had with City Planner Joyce
Repya about affordable housing in Edina.
B.Indigenous People's Day Resolution
Commissioner Kennedy reported on a draft resolution for Indigenous People's
Day.
Chair Arseneault reported on the state definitions of holidays, specifically on
Columbus Day.
The Commission discussed concerns with the draft and asked the committee for a
revised draft of the resolution to be brought to the September HRRC meeting.
Commissioner Kennedy will review other cities' resolutions and other sources
before revising the resolution; commissioner Beringer and Chair Arseneault will
assist with the revised draft.
C.Bias Offense Response Plan
Motion by Commissioner Ellen Kennedy to the bring the revised Bias
Offense Response Plan to City Council. Seconded by Commissioner
Heather Edelson. Motion Carried.
D.2017 Proposed Work Plan
Commission worked on their 2017 workplan.
VII.Correspondence And Petitions
none
VIII.Chair And Member Comments
Commissioner Kennedy reported that the William Mitchell Hamline School of Law
is doing a event on Indigenous People's Day.
Commissioner Edwards expressed thanks for the Linx.
Chair Arseneault reported that she attended the Government Alliance on Race and
Equity Speaker Series on Strategies for government to advance racial equity and
found th presentation very interesting.
IX.Staff Comments
X.Adjournment
Meeting adjourned at 9:07 pm.
Page 2 of 3
DRAFT
Motion by Commissioner Ellen Kennedy to Adjourn the Motion Seconded
by Commissioner Michelle Meek. Motion Carried.
Page 3 of 3
DRAFT
Date: September 27, 2016 Agenda Item #: VII.A.
To:Human Rights and Relations Commission Item Type:
Report and Recommendation
From:MJ Lamon, Project Coordinator
Item Activity:
Subject:2016 Work Plan Updates Discussion
CITY OF EDINA
4801 West 50th Street
Edina, MN 55424
www.edinamn.gov
ACTION REQUESTED:
Committees will provide reports and/or updates on their 2016 work plan initiatives.
INTRODUCTION:
A. Sharing Values, Sharing Community - Leading a Meaningful Life Event (Meek/Edelson)
B. Community Council Meeting Update (Kennedy)
C. CEDAW Update (Kennedy)
ATTACHMENTS:
Description
Committee and Working Group Roster
HRRC 2016 Work Plan and Progress Report
Edina Community Council Report
EEC Meeting Notes
MN Department of Health Student Survey
MN Report Card
Event Poster
Event Flier
CEDAW Information
EHRRC ROSTER: Committees, Working Groups, Representatives to External Committees
Responsibilities Chair Members Term Notes
Committee Tom Oye Award
Review nomination form & criteria to
determine need for revision; Provide
summary to commission; Update
letters to nominees and nominators;
Press Release / Ensure PSA will run
on Ch. 16; Ensure we have
presentation award; Present Award
Sarah Rinn
(2016)
Kristina Martin
Sid Ramesh Renew Annually
Review of nomination criteria
in summer; Preparations for
media/PR/announcements in
fall; Volunteer Award
Ceremony in spring (usually
April)
Committee Days of Remembrance
Create agenda & determine speakers;
Request holocaust survivors videos to
run on Ch. 16 throughout month of
April; Ensure event is marketed and
work with Communications
Department for poster update and
brochures; Distribution of posters;
Secure refreshments for event; Send
thank you notes to those involved
Heather Edelson
Kristina Martin
Michelle Meek
Caitlin Kearney
Renew Annually
Process usually starts in fall
and ends in April to coincide
with National Holocaust
Museum Days of
Remembrance
Working
Group
Human Rights City
Designation
Ellen Kennedy
(2016)
Cindy Edwards
Heather Edelson
Colleen Feige
Leslie Lagerstrom
Steve Winnick
Rachel Carlson
Arnie Bigbie
Terms end
December 2016
Community member
involvement
Committee Community
Conversations
Review working Group's Report to
Commission; determine course of
action (f any)
Maggie Vechhio-
Smith (2016)
Sarah Rinn
Kristina Martin Terms end
December 2016
Committee, Working Group, Event,
Rep to External Committee
Updated April 26, 2016
EHRRC ROSTER: Committees, Working Groups, Representatives to External Committees
Responsibilities Chair Members Term Notes
Committee, Working Group, Event,
Rep to External Committee
Committee Monitor Affordable
Housing
Monitor the status of affordable
housing projects and support current
affordable housing efforts; Continue
education on affordable housing
Co-Chairs:
Maggie Vecchio-
Smith (2016)
Catherine
Beringer (2016)
Terms end
December 2016
Committee
Convention of the
Elimination of all forms of
Discrimination Against
Women (CEDAW)
Drafting Resolution for Adoption by
City Council
Ellen Kennedy
(2016)Term ended Initiatve completed March
2016
Committee Indigenous Peoples Day
Designation
Drafting Resolution for Adoption by
City Council
Ellen Kennedy
(2016)Michelle Meek Terms end
December 2016
Target completion date
September 2016
Committee
Co-sponsor Community
Conversation with Edina
Pubic Schools PCN
(Parent Communication
Network)
Work with PCN to develop a topic of
mutual interest
Maggie Vechhio-
Smith (2016)
Term ends
December 2016 Initiatve on hold
Committee Sharing Values, Sharing
Community
Plan an event with leaders from
several faith communities
(Jewish/Muslim/Christian) to
advocate and embrace social justice
and understanding in our community
Heather Edelson
Kristina Martin
Michelle Meek
Terms end
December 2016
Updated April 26, 2016
EHRRC ROSTER: Committees, Working Groups, Representatives to External Committees
Responsibilities Chair Members Term Notes
Committee, Working Group, Event,
Rep to External Committee
HRRC Rep to
External
Committee
Edina Community Council
Council serves as Steering committee
for Edina Family Services
Collaborative; Attend meeting of the
social service agencies serving Edina,
the Edina school district, and other
South Hennepin metro communities.
Share information, participate in
budget process
N/A
Ellen Kennedy (3
year term: 2015-16;
2016-2017; 2017-
2018)
Renew every 3
years (before
start of school
year)
Meets (7:30-9:00 a.m.) every
other month during the
school year (September -
May)
Committee HRRC Website
Administration
Annual and periodic review of
website for content accuracy; Work
with Staff Liaison as needed on
changes or updates
Cindy Edwards
(2016)Sid Ramesh Renew Annually
Committee Bias Offense Response
Plan
Annually review Bias Offense
Response Plan; Work with City
Manager and Chief Nelson
Pat Arseneault
(2016)
Catherine Beringer
Cindy Edwards
Michelle Meek
Renew Annually
HRRC Rep to
External
Committee
Human Services
Taskforce
Review requests for funding
proposals from human service
providers who serve Edina
populations in need; Make
recommendation to Council on the
city's annual funding to providers
N/A No rep needed for
2016
Renew biennially
(at or before
September
Commission
meeting)
Taskforce comprised of reps
from Boards and
Commissions; Meets every
other year (next in 2017), 4
times in Oct/early Nov to
consider requests; Meets
with Council to make
recommendation
Updated April 26, 2016
Approved by City Council on December 15, 2015
39T39T
Board/Commission: Human Rights and Relations Commission
2016 Annual Work Plan Proposal
Initiative 1 ☐☐☐☐ New Initiative
☐☐☐☐ Continued Initiative
☒☒☒☒ On-Going Initiative
Target
Completion
Date
Budget
Required
Staff Support Required
(To be completed by Staff
Liaison)
Liaison Comments
Tom Oye Award April 2016 $100 1. 1.Register Attendance at
event
2. Track Nominations
3. 3. Update Website
Progress Report: Commission selected Lauren Morse-Wendt as the 2016 recipient in recognition of her collaborative leadership in developing support for
the 66 West project and for advancing a community conversation about affordable housing and homeless youth.
Initiative 2 ☐☐☐☐ New Initiative
☐☐☐☐ Continued Initiative
☒☒☒☒ On-Going Initiative
Target
Completion
Date
Budget
Required
Staff Support Required
(To be completed by Staff
Liaison)
Liaison Comments
Days of Remembrance April 2016 $1,000 1. Audio/Video – requires 2
CTS staff to come to
event and complete
video follow up
2. Marketing Pieces – CTS
request
3. Meeting Space – secure
City Hall, tables, chairs,
easels
4. Communication – Social
media, press release
5. Attend event
Most of the staff support
required is required from the
CTS department. The liaison
helps facilitate the requests.
With attending the event there
are many hours of staff support
for this event.
Progress Report: Annual DOR event held on April 10, 2016, focused on Women in the Holocaust and Genocides, featuring guest speaker St. Paul artist
and Holocaust survivor Lucy Smith, and talk by Dr. Ellen Kennedy on Ravensbruck, a women’s concentration camp. In addition, the committee
purposefully “branded” the event this year with the creation of a new poster design that will be used in all future DOR events.
Approved by City Council on December 15, 2015
Initiative 3 ☐☐☐☐ New Initiative
☒☒☒☒ Continued Initiative
☐☐☐☐ On-Going Initiative
Target
Completion
Date
Budget
Required
Staff Support Required
(To be completed by Staff
Liaison)
Liaison Comments
Human Rights City Designation December
2016
$200 1. Meeting Space – secure
rooms
2. Audio/Video – CTS staff to
assist with taping
3. Communication – social
media, press release
The HRRC is hoping to secure
Human Rights City Designation
in the year 2016.
Progress Report: Working group completed multiple presentations to Edina civic /community groups on what it means to be a human rights city, sought
best practices on addressing human rights issues from several Human Rights cities, and drafted a resolution for presentation to council for the city of
Edina to resolve to be a Human Rights City, which was adopted by City Council on August 3, 2016.
Initiative 4 ☐☐☐☐ New Initiative
☒☒☒☒ Continued Initiative
☐☐☐☐ On-Going Initiative
Target
Completion
Date
Budget
Required
Staff Support Required
(To be completed by Staff
Liaison)
Liaison Comments
Community Conversations December
2016
None 1. Meeting Space
2. Report to CC
The Human Rights City
Designation hopes to use some
of the information gathered
from these meetings.
Progress Report: Committee has undertaken a review of the Community Conversations December 2015 Report to determine recommendations to
address concerns raised during the conversations; Committee’s report is in progress.
Initiative 5 ☐☐☐☐ New Initiative
☒☒☒☒ Continued Initiative
☐☐☐☐ On-Going Initiative
Target
Completion
Date
Budget
Required
Staff Support Required
(To be completed by Staff
Liaison)
Liaison Comments
Affordable Housing Expanding Opportunity
1. Continued education on affordable housing
2. Monitor status of Edina
3. Support current efforts
December
2016
None 1. Administrative
2. Connecting with the
committee as the topic
arises at the City
Most of this committee’s work
has been surrounding and
supporting the Edina Housing
Foundations Affordable
Housing Policy. They have also
been in support and watching
66 West project.
Progress Report: Committee continues to monitor status of affordable housing in Edina.
Approved by City Council on December 15, 2015
Initiative 6 ☒☒☒☒ New Initiative
☐☐☐☐ Continued Initiative
☐☐☐☐ On-Going Initiative
Target
Completion
Date
Budget
Required
Staff Support Required
(To be completed by Staff
Liaison)
Liaison Comments
Convention of the Elimination of all forms of
Discrimination Against Women (CEDAW)
• Resolution
• Education
November
2016
$500 1. Audio/Video – CTS staff to
be at event
2. Marketing Pieces – CTS
request
3. Meeting space – securing
space
4. Communications
Progress Report: Draft Resolution to endorse the national passage of CEDAW and to confirm the city’s commitment to the elimination of all forms of
discrimination against women presented to and adopted by City Council on March 2, 2016.
Initiative 7 ☒☒☒☒ New Initiative
☐☐☐☐ Continued Initiative
☐☐☐☐ On-Going Initiative
Target
Completion
Date
Budget
Required
Staff Support Required
(To be completed by Staff
Liaison)
Liaison Comments
Indigenous Peoples Day Designation September
2016
None 1. Admin support –
submitting reports to City
Council
Progress Report: Committee reviewed several cities’ Indigenous Peoples Day resolutions and other background information regarding history and
rationale for seeking recognition of Indigenous Peoples Day on the second Monday in October and prepared a draft Resolution for review and approval
by the commission to forward to city council for consideration.
Initiative 8 ☒☒☒☒ New Initiative
☐☐☐☐ Continued Initiative
☐☐☐☐ On-Going Initiative
Target
Completion
Date
Budget
Required
Staff Support Required
(To be completed by Staff
Liaison)
Liaison Comments
Co-sponsor Community Conversation with Edina Public
Schools PCN (Parent Communication Network)
October
2016
$150 1. Marketing pieces for
event – CTS request
2. Communications
Progress Report: Put on hold pending the outcome of the Community Conversations committee’s work.
Initiative 9 ☐☐☐☐ New Initiative
☐☐☐☐ Continued Initiative
☐☐☐☐ On-Going Initiative
Target
Completion
Date
Budget
Required
Staff Support Required
(To be completed by Staff
Liaison)
Liaison Comments
Sharing Values, Sharing Community February $200 1. Marketing pieces for
Approved by City Council on December 15, 2015
• Community Event 2016 event – CTS request
2. Communications
Progress Report: Event entitled “Leading a Meaningful Life: An Interfaith Conversation with Religious Leaders about Joy, Appreciation and Gratitude” is
scheduled for October 27, 2016, in the Hughes Pavilion at Centennial Lakes, featuring Rabbi Michael Latz (Shir Tikvah), Father Kevin Finnegan (Our Lady
of Grace), Imam Asad Zaman and Reverend Steve Hagen (founder / teacher at Dharma Field Zen Center).
Ongoing Responsibilities
Edina Resource Center/Edina Community Council – HRRC Rep September to May, 3 year term
Website/Blog
Bias Offense Response and Prevention Plan: Review annually
HRRC Rep to Human Services Task Force
Other Work Plan Ideas Considered for Current Year or Future Years
Partnership with Health Commission on prescription drug abuse awareness.
Food Justice Initiative
Proposed Month for Joint Work Session (one time per
year, up to 60 minutes):
July 2016 (July 19, 2016)
Council Comments: Work plans proposed by the Boards and Commissions were reviewed at the December 1 work
session. The following changes/comments were made and are reflected on this work plan:
• No changes
• Concerned about staff time consumption (CTS and liaison) for initiatives.
Edina Community Council Report
Ellen Kennedy, Commissioner
September 19, 2016
The Edina Community Council is a group of individuals representing the following
• School Board;
• Hennepin County;
• Community agencies;
• Community Action Agency and Headstart
• Community members and parents at large;
• Faith community and businesses; and
• Edina City Council, through members from EHRRC, Health Advisory Board, Police Department,
Senior Center, etc.
The purpose of the Edina Community Council is to
• Assess human service needs in Edina;
• Select and prioritize community goals to strengthen families;
• Connect needed resources to community members; and
• Serve as the governing board of the Advisory Council for the Edina Resource Center and the
Edina Family Services Collaborative.
I am the EHRRC representative to the Edina Community Council. I am pleased to report on the issues
that will be addressed in the 2016-17 year.
Edina Community Data, as of 7/19/2016
• Edina Public Schools
8,533 students
97.6 % graduation rate, 2014
3.8 % English Language Learners
10.2 % Special Education. The percent is stable but there are more students on both ends of the
spectrum)
8.7 % free/reduced lunch (677)
98.6 % of students report feeling safe at school. This means that 170 students do not report
feeling safe. I have requested more information and it will be forthcoming.
Racial breakdown: 76.8 % white, 11.4 % Asian, 6.7 % Black, 4.8 % Hispanic, .3 % American Indian
• City of Edina Profile
47,941 people
24.2 % < age 18
20.7 % > age 65
97.8 % high school graduates or higher
67.2 % BA degree or higher (Hennepin County 45.8 %, MN 32.6 %)
86.6 % white, non-Latino, 13.4 % persons of color
The Edina Resource Center has launched a new website - http://edinaresourcecenter.com/
This website is designed to function as a community bulletin board. The resources are very extensive
and are available in many different languages. EHRRC should link to this website and should post this
link on the EHRRC site. This website provides all of the community-based resources that EHRRC
members have discussed as important to disseminate throughout the community. The Edina Resource
Center is currently making the information available in all school materials and in a number of other
ways.
Other relevant information:
Three areas of focus for the Edina Community Council this year are
• Drug, tobacco, and alcohol use
• Mental health
• Maternal and child health
Significant attention is also being paid to the increasing numbers of people living alone and who are
diagnosed with Alzheimer’s or with dementia.
Edina Public Schools is adding site-based mental health clinics to serve pre-school through high school
students, through Fraser for young children and Family innovations for Edina High School. Fully 20 % of
all school-age children nationally are in need of mental-health services, while only about 7 % are able to
have access to such services. Edina schools’ current system has become overloaded. The site-based
clinics will operate independently and will connect families to services that will be available during the
school day. EPS is also preparing reactive training for site personnel. There are resources on ACE,
Adverse Childhood Experiences, the extent to which trauma in childhood affects long-term health.
Hennepin County Library is fostering a connection to the apartment complex at W. 66th Street, to
provide important library services on-site.
VEAP is focusing on poverty in the suburbs. The families who are long-time users of VEAP’s services are
likely to be struggling with mental health issues that make it very difficult to move out of poverty.
There was a discussion of collaboration with St. Louis Park for a film on resilience; with Minnetonka for
training about recognizing and dealing with Alzheimer’s and dementia; and for bringing in speakers to
talk about Edina’s current efforts to address the needs of our aging population.
Leading a
Meaningful Life
Edina
Human Rights
Series
An Interfaith Conversation with Religious Leaders
About Joy, Appreciation and Gratitude
Featuring Father Kevin Finnegan, Reverend Steve Hagen,
Rabbi Michael Latz and Imam Asad Zaman
6 p.m. Oct. 27
Centennial Lakes Hughes Pavilion
7499 France Ave. S., Edina
FREE EVENT
Thank you for joining us for this interfaith
conversation with local faith leaders about the
complexities to finding joy, appreciation and
gratitude in our daily lives.
Attendees are encouraged to join in the conversation.
Refreshments will be served following the event.
Imam
Asad Zaman
Father
Kevin Finnegan
Reverend
Steve Hagen
Rabbi
Michael Latz
6 p.m. Oct. 27
Centennial Lakes Hughes Pavilion
7499 France Ave. S., Edina
FREE EVENT
Leading a Meaningful Life
Edina
Human Rights
Series
Date: September 27, 2016 Agenda Item #: VII.B.
To:Human Rights and Relations Commission Item Type:
Report and Recommendation
From:MJ Lamon, Project Coordinator
Item Activity:
Subject:Indigenous Peoples Day Designation Action
CITY OF EDINA
4801 West 50th Street
Edina, MN 55424
www.edinamn.gov
ACTION REQUESTED:
Approve resolution to be sent to City Council for consideration.
INTRODUCTION:
The Human Rights and Relations Indigenous Peoples' Day committee has created a draft resolution for the
commission as a whole to review. If the resolution is approved by the HRRC, City Staff will forward the final
resolution to City Council for consideration.
ATTACHMENTS:
Description
Indigenous Peoples Day Overview
St. Paul Indigenous Peoples Day Resolution
Indigenous Peoples Day DRAFT Edina Resolution
Indigenous Peoples Day: Overview
The idea of replacing Columbus Day with a day celebrating the indigenous people of North
America arose in 1977 from the International Conference on Discrimination Against Indigenous
Populations in the Americas, sponsored by the United Nations in Geneva, Switzerland.
After the conference, attendees from Northern California organized to plan protests against the
"Quincentennial Jubilee" that had been organized by the United States Congress for the San
Francisco Bay Area on Columbus Day, 1992.
In 1992, the group convinced the city council of Berkeley, California, to declare October 12 a
"Day of Solidarity with Indigenous People," and 1992 the "Year of Indigenous People," and to
implement related programs in schools, libraries, and museums. The city symbolically renamed
Columbus Day "Indigenous Peoples' Day" beginning in 1992 to protest the historical conquest
of North America by Europeans and to call attention to the demise of Native American people
and culture through disease, warfare, massacre, and forced assimilation. Berkeley has
celebrated Indigenous Peoples' Day ever since.
In the years after Berkeley's move, other local governments and institutions have either
renamed or canceled Columbus Day, either to celebrate Native Americans, to avoid celebrating
actions of Columbus that led to the colonization of America by Spanish conquistadors, or due to
controversy over the legacy of Columbus. Two other California cities, Sebastopol and Santa
Cruz, now celebrate Indigenous Peoples' Day.
At least four states do not celebrate Columbus Day (Alaska, Hawaii, Oregon, and South Dakota)
with South Dakota officially celebrating Native American Day instead.
Various tribal governments in Oklahoma designate the day "Native American Day" or name the
day after their own tribe.
Columbus, Ohio has not sponsored an official Columbus Day parade since the 1990s, in part
over controversy over the legacy of Columbus. Other cities and states have canceled
celebrations due to lack of interest in the holiday or budget cuts.
In April 2014, the city council of Minneapolis, Minnesota, officially voted to recognize
Indigenous Peoples' Day along with Columbus Day. This was followed in October by the city
council of Seattle, Washington, officially recognizing the holiday.[26]
On April 28, 2014, Red Wing, Minnesota, replaced Columbus Day with Chief Red Wing Day to
honor the city's namesake, Hupaha-duta, the Dakota leader known as "Red Wing."
Indigenous Peoples' Day is recognized in place of Columbus Day at Minnesota State University,
Mankato, following an official vote of the Minnesota State Student Association in October
2014.
The city council of Grand Rapids, Minnesota, passed a resolution recognizing Indigenous
Peoples' Day on December 15, 2014.[28]
The City Commission of Traverse City, Michigan, passed a resolution recognizing Indigenous
Peoples' Day on February 2, 2015.
The Town of Newstead and the Village of Akron, New York, and the Akron Central School
District, voted to celebrate Indigenous People's Day on Columbus Day in May 2015.
On August 12, 2015, the city council of St. Paul, Minnesota, unanimously passed a resolution
recognizing Indigenous Peoples' Day in place of Columbus Day.
The Town and Village of Lewiston, New York, declared the second Monday of October,
Indigenous Peoples' Day, on September 28 and October 5, 2015, respectively.
In October 2015, the cities of Anchorage, Alaska, Portland, Oregon, Carrboro, North
Carolina and Albuquerque, New Mexico adopted similar resolutions.
In October 2015 Governor Bill Walker of Alaska issued an executive proclamation renaming
Columbus Day "Indigenous Peoples' Day."
On October 5, 2015, the City of San Fernando passed a resolution recognizing Indigenous
People's Day.
On December 15, 2015, the City Council of Belfast, Maine approved the renaming of Columbus
Day as Indigenous Peoples' Day.
On January 5, 2016, the City Council of Durango, Colorado unanimously voted to celebrate
Indigenous Peoples' Day on the second Monday of October.
Asheville City Council voted unanimously to adopt Indigenous Peoples' Day on January 12,
2016.
On January 28th, 2016 the student body of the University of Utah unanimously voted to
support the replacement of the annual holiday "Columbus Day" to "Indigenous Peoples' Day."
On March 17th, 2016, the Cornell University Student Assembly voted unanimously to approve a
resolution recommending that the provost amend the university's academic calendar to
recognize Indigenous Peoples' Day.
On June 6th, 2016 the City of Cambridge, Massachusetts voted unanimously (9-0) to rename
Columbus Day to Indigenous Peoples Day.
On August 2nd, 2016 the City of Boulder, Colorado voted unanimously (9-0) to establish
Indigenous Peoples Day.
City of Saint Paul
A RESOULUTION OF THE MAYOR AND CITY COUNCIL
A RESOLUTION relating to Indigenous People’s Day; declaring the second Monday in
October as Indigenous Peoples Day in the City of Saint Paul; encouraging other institutions
to recognize the Day; and reaffirming the City’s commitment to promote the well-being and
growth of Saint Paul’s American Indian and Indigenous community.
Whereas, the City of Saint Paul recognizes the occupation of Dakota homelands for the building of our City
and knows indigenous nations have lived upon this land since time immemorial and values the progress of
our society accomplished through and by American Indian thought, culture and technology; and
Whereas, the City of Saint Paul understands the importance of closing the equity gap, between and by
government entities, organizations and other public institutions and to encourage change in policies and
practices to better reflect the capabilities of American Indian people and recognize our Indigenous roots,
history, and contributions; and
Whereas, the idea of Indigenous Peoples Day was first proposed in 1977 by a delegation of Native nations
to the United Nations-sponsored International Conference on Discrimination Against Indigenous
Populations in the Americas; and
Whereas, in an effort to reveal a more accurate historical record of the “discovery” of the United States of
America, representatives from 120 Indigenous nations at the First Continental Conference on 500 years of
Indian Resistance, unanimously passed a resolution to transform Columbus day into an occasion to
recognize the contributions of Indigenous people despite enormous efforts against native nations; and
Whereas, the City of Saint Paul has a strong history throughout the years of supporting the American Indian
Community and its citizens advancement in our current society; and
Whereas, the United States federal government, the State of Minnesota, and the City of Saint Paul
recognize Columbus Day on the Second Monday, in accordance with the federal holiday established in
1937;
Now, Therefore, Be It Resolved by The City Council that the City of Saint Paul shall also
recognize Indigenous Peoples Day on the Second Monday of October.
Be it Further Resolved that the City of Saint Paul shall continue its efforts to promote the well-being and
growth of the Saint Paul American Indian Community and Indigenous Community.
Be it Further Resolved that Indigenous Peoples Day shall be used to reflect upon the ongoing struggles of
Indigenous people on this land, and to celebrate the thriving culture and value that Dakota, Ojibwe, other
Indigenous nations add to our city.
Be it Further, Resolved, the City of Saint Paul encourages other businesses, organizations and public entities
to recognize Indigenous Peoples Day.
City of Edina
A RESOLUTION OF THE MAYOR AND CITY COUNCIL
A RESOLUTION relating to Indigenous Peoples Day; declaring the second Monday in October as
Indigenous Peoples Day in the City of Edina; encouraging other institutions to recognize the Day; and
reaffirming the City’s commitment to promote the well-being and growth of Edina’s and Minnesota’s
American Indian and Indigenous community.
Whereas, the City of Edina recognizes the occupation of Dakota homelands for the building of our
region and knows indigenous nations have lived upon this land since time immemorial and values the
progress of our society accomplished through and by American Indian thought, culture and technology;
and
Whereas, the City of Edina understands the importance of recognizing our Indigenous roots, history, and
contributions; and
Whereas, the idea of Indigenous Peoples Day was first proposed in 1977 by a delegation of Native
nations to the United Nations-sponsored International Conference on Discrimination Against Indigenous
Populations in the Americas; and
Whereas, in an effort to reveal a more accurate historical record of the “discovery” of the United States
of America, representatives from 120 Indigenous nations at the First Continental Conference on 500
years of Indian Resistance, unanimously passed a resolution to transform Columbus Day into an
occasion to also recognize the contributions of Indigenous people; and
Whereas, several states, many cities throughout the nation, and many organizations have designated
the second Monday of every October as Indigenous Peoples Day,
Whereas, the City of Edina declared itself a Human Rights City on August 3, 2016, and resolved to
designate December 10 each year as the “City of Edina Human Rights Day” to recognize the annual
anniversary of the signing of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights; and
Whereas, the City of Edina has a strong commitment to affirm the advancement and dignity of all
people in our society; and
Whereas, the United States federal government and the State of Minnesota recognize Columbus Day on
the second Monday of October, in accordance with the federal holiday established in 1937;
Now, Therefore, Be It Resolved by The Edina City Council that the City of Edina shall also recognize
Indigenous Peoples Day on the second Monday of October.
Be it Further Resolved that the City of Edina shall continue its efforts to promote the well-being and
growth of the region’s American Indian and Indigenous Community.
Be it Further Resolved that Indigenous Peoples Day shall be used to reflect upon the ongoing struggles
of Indigenous people on this land, and to celebrate the thriving culture and value that Dakota, Ojibwe,
other Indigenous nations add to our city and our region.
Be it Further Resolved, the City of Edina encourages other businesses, organizations and public entities
to recognize Indigenous Peoples Day on the second Monday of every October.
Date: September 27, 2016 Agenda Item #: VII.C.
To:Human Rights and Relations Commission Item Type:
Report and Recommendation
From:MJ Lamon, Project Coordinator
Item Activity:
Subject:2017 Proposed Work Plan Action
CITY OF EDINA
4801 West 50th Street
Edina, MN 55424
www.edinamn.gov
ACTION REQUESTED:
Approve 2017 Proposed Work Plan to be presented to City Council on October 5.
INTRODUCTION:
ATTACHMENTS:
Description
HRRC 2017 Proposed Work Plan
Board/Commission: Choose an item.
2017 Annual Work Plan Proposal
*Complete each section with a white background
*Liaisons need to fill out budget and staff support required
*Return to MJ Lamon by September 23, 2016
Definitions:
New Initiative – not on previous work plan
Continued Initiative – carried over from a previous work plan with
a revised target completion date
Ongoing Responsibility – annually on the work plan and may or
may not have a target completion date
Initiative Council Charge
☐☐☐☐ 1 ☐☐☐☐ 2 ☐☐☐☐ 3 ☐☐☐☐ 4
Target Completion
Date
Budget Required
(Staff Liaison)
Staff Support Required
(Staff Liaison)
☐ New Initiative ☐ Continued Initiative ☒ Ongoing Responsibility April 2017 $75 for Plaque +
possible cost for New
Printed Materials
1. Register attendance at
event
2. Track nominations
3. Update website
Tom Oye Award
Liaison Comments: Click here to enter text.
City Manager Comments: Click here to enter text.
Progress Report: Click here to enter text.
Initiative Council Charge
☐☐☐☐ 1 ☐☐☐☐ 2 ☐☐☐☐ 3 ☐☐☐☐ 4
Target Completion
Date
Budget Required
(Staff Liaison)
Staff Support Required
(Staff Liaison)
☐ New Initiative ☐ Continued Initiative ☒ Ongoing Responsibility August 2017 $0 1. Coordinate meetings
2. Track offenses Bias Offense Response Plan – review and update, if needed, annually
Liaison Comments: Click here to enter text.
City Manager Comments: Click here to enter text.
Progress Report: Click here to enter text.
Initiative Council Charge
☐☐☐☐ 1 ☐☐☐☐ 2 ☐☐☐☐ 3 ☐☐☐☐ 4
Target Completion
Date
Budget Required
(Staff Liaison)
Staff Support Required
(Staff Liaison)
☐ New Initiative ☐ Continued Initiative ☒ Ongoing Responsibility April 2017 $300 for Marketing
Materials and
Refreshments
1. Work with CTS on marketing
materials Days of Remembrance Event
Liaison Comments: Click here to enter text.
City Manager Comments: Click here to enter text.
Progress Report: Click here to enter text.
Initiative Council Charge
☐☐☐☐ 1 ☐☐☐☐ 2 ☐☐☐☐ 3 ☐☐☐☐ 4
Target Completion
Date
Budget Required
(Staff Liaison)
Staff Support Required
(Staff Liaison)
☐ New Initiative ☒ Continued Initiative ☐ Ongoing Responsibility June 2017 Click here to enter
text.
Click here to enter text.
Develop a strategic plan (extension of Human Rights City
Designation).
● Housing
● Aging Community
● Addressing Issues of Racism
Liaison Comments: HRRC will be asking Council to approve a strategic plan which will be the road map moving into the future.
City Manager Comments: Click here to enter text.
Progress Report: Click here to enter text.
Initiative Council Charge
☐☐☐☐ 1 ☐☐☐☐ 2 ☐☐☐☐ 3 ☐☐☐☐ 4
Target Completion
Date
Budget Required
(Staff Liaison)
Staff Support Required
(Staff Liaison)
☒ New Initiative ☐ Continued Initiative ☐ Ongoing Responsibility December 2017 Click here to enter
text.
Click here to enter text.
AARP Age Friendly Community Designation
● Develop and adopt plan for multiyear process.
● Investigate the feasibility of enrolling in or joining the AARP
network.
Liaison Comments: Click here to enter text.
City Manager Comments: Click here to enter text.
Progress Report: Click here to enter text.
Initiative Council Charge
☐☐☐☐ 1 ☐☐☐☐ 2 ☐☐☐☐ 3 ☐☐☐☐ 4
Target Completion
Date
Budget Required
(Staff Liaison)
Staff Support Required
(Staff Liaison)
☒ New Initiative ☐ Continued Initiative ☐ Ongoing Responsibility June 2017 $1,000 fee for
Workshop
Facilitators
Click here to enter text.
Institutional Racism Workshop
Liaison Comments: Workshop participants could include HRRC members, HRRC would provide invites to others who may want to attend.
City Manager Comments: Click here to enter text.
Progress Report: Click here to enter text.
Initiative Council Charge
☐☐☐☐ 1 ☐☐☐☐ 2 ☐☐☐☐ 3 ☐☐☐☐ 4
Target Completion
Date
Budget Required
(Staff Liaison)
Staff Support Required
(Staff Liaison)
☒ New Initiative ☐ Continued Initiative ☐ Ongoing Responsibility Likely ongoing
throughout 2017
Potential stipend for
consultants; release
time for officers and
the chief
Click here to enter text.
Police Department Partnership on Best Practices and Continued
Training Opportunities (Outgrowth of Community Conversations)
Liaison Comments: Click here to enter text.
City Manager Comments: Click here to enter text.
Progress Report: Click here to enter text.
Initiative Council Charge
☐☐☐☐ 1 ☐☐☐☐ 2 ☐☐☐☐ 3 ☐☐☐☐ 4
Target Completion
Date
Budget Required
(Staff Liaison)
Staff Support Required
(Staff Liaison)
☒ New Initiative ☒ Continued Initiative ☐ Ongoing Responsibility October 2017 TBD ($300 for
Marketing Materials
and Refreshments,
Need input from HRRC members
regarding success of 2016 event and
thoughts for 2017 event(s). Sharing Values, Sharing Communities
● 2017 Event(s) / Developing Annual Speaker Series; TBD
based on success of 2016 Interfaith panel event
depending on event)
Liaison Comments: The committee would reconvene after the 2016 event to debrief and develop ideas to present for a 2017 event. The idea would be to
create a series of public discussions around important, uplifting topics that could be addressed by leaders of our community.
City Manager Comments: Click here to enter text.
Progress Report: Click here to enter text.
Parking Lot: (These items have been considered by the BC, but not proposed as part of this year’s work plan. If the BC decides they would like
to work on them in the current year, it would need to be approved by Council.)
Transgender Rights – Educational presentation or other efforts to ensure welcome and safe environment for all within the city
Recognition for Community Members whose work addresses issues of racism (e.g., an MLK Award)
Tom Oye Award – Developing an Annual Theme for the award
Proposed Month for Joint Work Session (one time per year, up to 60 minutes):
Council Comments:
Date: September 27, 2016 Agenda Item #: VIII.A.
To:Human Rights and Relations Commission Item Type:
Correspondence
From:Kelly Dumais, City Management Fellow
Item Activity:
Subject:Correspondence Information
CITY OF EDINA
4801 West 50th Street
Edina, MN 55424
www.edinamn.gov
ACTION REQUESTED:
INTRODUCTION:
Article on violence against Native Americans.
ATTACHMENTS:
Description
Correspondence
Correspondence 2
Correspondence 3
SANFORD BERMAN
4400 MORNINGSIDE RD
EDINA MN 55416-5043
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LESSONS FROM THE BERNIE SANDERS CAMPAIGN
THE
RADICALISM F
BLACK LIVES
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Post-GOPocalype
As I glanced up after read-
ing Chris Lehmann's excel-
lent piece on the RNC, it
occurred to me that the ac-
companying photo captured
a 23."-century variation of
Grant Wood's "American
Gothic" ("The Final Sign of
the GOPocalypse," Septem-
ber). The couple pictured
personifies the angst of
many Republican partisans
who realize they have been
duped by the ugly pander-
ing employed by the GOP
for decades, and that the
leveraging of the worst
tendencies of human nature
to achieve political power
was all accomplished to fur-
ther the agenda of wealthy
elites—and nothing more.
Gene Case
Andover, Minn.
Yes, there is a lesser evil
Leonard C. Goodman's
article urging people to vote
for the Green Party contains
valid criticisms of Hillary
Clinton ("When There's No
Lesser Evil: September).
To white, middle-class
progressives, I say: Yes, vot-
ing Green may make you
feel good. But this election
is not about your feelings.
Trump will cause great
harm to others less fortu-
nate than yourself.
Robert Baillie
State College, Pa.
Goodman advocates voting
Green since he regards both
Trump and Clinton as unac-
ceptable alternatives, but his
description of the two can-
didates favors Trump. He
claims that Trump, unlike
Clinton, "is not beholden to
war contractors like Lock-
heed Martin and Boeing!'
That "on trade Trump is
more progressive than Clin-
ton." He says that Trump
"does not appear to bow
to the wishes of ideologi-
cal conservatives." Good-
man neglected to mention
Trump's bowing
to the NRA.
Trump's allegiance is to
alt-right ideology, as af-
firmed by his appointment
of Breitbart's Stephen Ban-
non as his campaign CEO.
They could be described
as soul brothers, if either
had one. If Goodman can't
discern a difference between
Trump and Clinton, then
his head is located in a place
that would be impolite for
me to mention.
Vic Affolter
Tillamook, Ore.
Black leadership deficit
Bernie lost the Black vote
not because Black people
didn't support his program,
but because Black political,
social and religious orga-
nizations are tightly bound
up with the establishment
Democratic Party ("Lessons
From the Bernie Campaign,"
September). Many young
Black people are dissatisfied
with this arrangement, and
the winds of change will
blow here as well as every-
where else.
Via InTheseTimes.com
Herzog dreams
Herzog asks the questions
that many people don't,
from "What the hell is this?"
to "Why?" to "How does this
truly affect us in the long
run?" ("Does the Internet
Dream?" September).
Herzog's inquisitive
mind often brings us the
best questions ... and the
best answers.
Via InTheseTimes.corn
ON THE COVER
Native Americans killed by police (L to R) from top:
Marcus Lee, Lance McIntire, Daniel Covarrubias,
Raymond Eacret, Jessie Lee Rose, Jacqueline Salyers,
Mah-hi-vist Goodblanket, Richard Estrada, Jeanetta Riley,
Larry Kobuk, Rexdale Henry, Loreal Tsingine, Corey Kanosh,
Allen Locke, Sarah Lee Circle Bear, Christina Tahhahwah,
Philip Quinn, Paul Castaway, Tristan Vent, John T. Williams
We encourage readers' thoughts. Send your letters to
Letters@lnTheseTimes.com. Please include your city and state.
IN THESE TIMES.COM—The Standing Rock
Sioux Nation's protests against the Dakota
Access Pipeline in Cannonball, N.D., may be
the highest-profile environmental and indig-
enous rights campaign since the Keystone
XL fight (which led to the pipeline's cancel- -
lation in November 2015). Kate Aronoff dis-
cusses what the differences between these
two fights say about the evolution of the
environmental movement—and the Left.
2 OCTOBER 2016 IN THESE TIMES
contents VOLUME 40 — NUMBER 10
FEATURES
20 THE MOVEMENT FOR NATIVE LIVES
Native Americans are killed by police at a
rate higher than any other group
BY STEPHANIE WOODARD
28 THE EXECUTION THAT BIRTHED A MOVEMENT
Troy Davis' death five years ago transformed
Occupy and kindled Black Lives Matter
BY JEN MARLOWE AND KEEANGA-YAMAHTTA TAYLOR
30 A TANK BY ANY OTHER NAME
The Pentagon is giving cops as much military gear as ever
BY SETH KERSHNER
32 WHOSE REVOLUTION?
The next incarnation of Bernie Sanders' campaign
BY KATE ARONOFF AND ETHAN COREY
34 STILL HARVESTING SHAME
Inside Big Ag's migrant labor camps
BY ROBERT HOLLY/ MIDWEST CENTER FOR
INVESTIGATIVE REPORTING
ACT LOCALLY
8 ELECTION
Down ballot, things are looking up
BY ALEX DING
10 ENVIRONMENT
The little engine that could explode
BY BRUCE VAIL
VIEWS
12 UP FOR DEri,TE
Tilting at windmills
BY MICHAEL HUTCHINS AND
REBECCA LEBER
17 BACK TALK
The right to harass?
BY SUSAN J. DOUGLAS
18 VIEWPOINT
The Left deserves better than Jill Stein
BY KATE ARONOFF
IN PERSON
38 INTERVIEW
Ms. Jayapal goes to Washington
BY RACHELLE HAMPTON
CARTOONS
40 FEATURING
Mark Kaufman, Matt Lubchansky,
Matt Bors and Jen Sorensen
CULTURE
42 BOOKS
It's the story, stupid
BY THEO ANDERSON
44
45
46
49
52
FROM THE OLD COUNTRY
The hairdresser of Plaistow
BY JANE MILLER
BACKPAGE
The Right's cycle of hate
BY THEO ANDERSON
ART
Motor City phantasmagoria
BY LEYLAND DEVITO
TAKE TWO
In the shadow of the volcano
BY MICHAEL ATKINSON
EXIT SIGNS
Rich people's mattresses
BY CHRIS LEHMANN
IN THESE TIMES OCTOBER 2016 3
Is it a gun, is it a knife / Is it a wallet, this is your life / It ain't no secret / No
secret my friend / You can get killed just for living in your American skin
—BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN, "AMERICAN SKIN (41 SHOTS)"
OR NAT V
Native Americans are killed by police at a rate higher than any other group
BY STEPHANIE WOODARD
UQUAMISH TRIBE DE-
scendant Jeanetta Riley, a
34-year-old mother of four,
lay facedown on a Sand-
point, Idaho, street.
One minute earlier, three police of-
ficers had arrived, summoned by staff
at a nearby hospital. Her husband had
sought help there because Riley—
homeless, pregnant and with a history
of mental illness—was threatening
suicide. Riley had a knife in her right
hand and was sitting in the couple's
parked van.
Wearing body armor and armed
with an assault rifle and Glock pistols,
the officers quickly closed in on Riley—
one moving down the sidewalk toward
the van, the other two crossing the
roadway. They shouted instructions at
her—to walk toward them, show them
her hands. Cursing them, she refused.
"Drop the knife!" they yelled, advanc-
ing, then opened fire.
They pumped two shots into her
chest and another into her back as she
fell to the pavement. Fifteen seconds
had elapsed from the time they exited
their vehicles.
That July evening in 2014, Riley be-
came another Native American killed
by police. Patchy government data col-
lection makes it hard to know the com-
plete tally. The Washington Post and the
Guardian (U.K.) have both developed
databases to fill in the gaps, but even
these sometimes misidentify or omit
Native victims.
To get a clearer picture, Mike Males,
senior researcher at the Center on Ju-
venile and Criminal Justice, looked at
data the Centers for Disease Control
and Prevention (CDC) collected from
medical examiners in 47 states between
1999 and 2o11. When compared to their
percentage of the U.S. population, Na-
tives were more likely to be killed by
police than any other group, includ-
ing African Americans. By age, Natives
20-24, 25-34 and 35-44 were three of
the five groups most likely to be killed
by police. (The other two groups were
African Americans 20-24 and 25-34.)
Males' analysis of CDC data from 1999
to 2014 shows that Native Americans
are 3.1 times more likely to be killed by
police than white Americans.
OCTOBER 2016 IN THESE TIMES
Yet these killings of Native people
go almost entirely unreported by
mainstream U.S. media. In a paper
presented in April at a Western Social
Science Association meeting, Clare-
mont Graduate University researchers
Roger Chin, Jean Schroedel and Lily
Rowen reviewed articles about deaths-
by-cop published between May 1, 2014,
and October 31, 2015, in the top 10 U.S.
newspapers by circulation: the Wall
24, during the fall of 2015, Clark's story
was well-reported, while Quinn's pass-
ing, like those of almost all other Native
victims, was barely noted.
Nor did major media report on a
spate of Native jailhouse deaths in
2015. The statistics on "death by le-
gal intervention"—a term used by the
CDC to describe fatalities at the hands
of police—include those that occur in
custody prior to sentencing. Whether
mond Eacret, 34, in California. On the
Cheyenne River Sioux Tribe's reserva-
tion in South Dakota, an angry crowd
marched on police headquarters af-
ter tribal member Phillip High Bear's
mother alleged her 33-yeat-old son was
beaten to death there. Protestors sang,
drummed and shouted taunting refer-
ences to the 1890 shooting death of La-
kota spiritual leader Sitting Bull at the
hands of Native police officers.
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Street Journal, New York Times, USA
Today, Los Angeles Times, New York
Daily News, New York Post, Chicago
Sun-Times, Denver Post, Washington
Post and Chicago Tribune.
Of the 29 Native Americans killed
by police during that time, only one
received sustained coverage—Paul
Castaway, a Rosebud Sioux man shot
dead in Denver while threatening sui-
cide. The Denver Post ran six articles,
totaling 2,577 words. The killing of
Suquamish tribal member Daniel Co-
varrubias, shot when he reached for
his cell phone, received a total of 515
words in the Washington Post and the
New York Times (which misidentified
him as Latino). The other 27 deaths re-
ceived no coverage.
Compare this media blackout with
the coverage of the next-most-likely
group to be killed by police. The re-
searchers found that the io papers de-
voted hundreds of articles to the 413 Af-
rican Americans killed by police in that
period, as well as to Black Lives Mat-
ter (BLM) protests and police violence
more broadly. That's largely a testament
to the power of the BLM movement,
which exploded after the Aug. 9, 2014
killing of Michael Brown. When Min-
neapolis police killed both White Earth
Ojibwe tribal member Philip Quinn,
3o, and African-American Jamar Clark,
the deaths are due to police action or
neglect, the department is considered
accountable. "When people are in cus-
tody, law enforcement has control of
them and a responsibility for their wel-
fare:' Males explains.
A report commissioned by Alaska's
Gov. Bill Walker found that Joseph MM.-
phy, an Alaska Native veteran of the Iraq
War, died of a heart attack in a holding
cell in Juneau in August 2015, as jail staff
yelled "fuck you" and "I don't care" in
response to his pleas. According to the
report, Larry Kobuk, identified in news
articles as a 33-year-old Alaska Native,
who had a heart condition known to his
jailers, died in January 2015 while being
held face down by four officers. Sarah
Lee Circle Bear, a 24-year-old Sioux
mother of two jailed in South Dakota,
died after reportedly complaining of
pain and being refused medical care. (At
the Democratic National Convention,
Sandra Bland's mother, Geneva Reed-
Veal, who has become a vocal activist in
the movement for black lives, pointed
out that Circle Bear's death occurred
during the same month her daughter
died in police custody—July 2015.)
The list of 2015 deaths goes on:
53-year-old Choctaw medicine man
Rexdale Henry, in a jail cell in Missis-
sippi; Alaska Native Gilbert Joseph, 57,
in Alaska; Yurok tribal member Ray-
Yet even this story received no cov-
erage in the io largest papers. The Cla-
remont researchers stress that they are
not criticizing the important attention
paid to the movement for black lives,
but they note that a larger narrative
is at play: Racial issues in the United
States tend to be framed as black and
white, while other groups are ignored.
But Native Americans' experiences
of violence and discrimination in the
United States often parallel those of
African Americans. Federal investiga-
tions have found that on the borders
of reservations, Native Americans are
treated as second-class citizens by po-
lice and public agencies in ways that
echo the experience of black Ameri-
cans in towns like Ferguson, Mo.
Over the past 4o years, the U.S. Com-
mission on Civil Rights (USCCR), an
independent government agency, has
held numerous hearings on discrimina-
tion in border towns surrounding reser-
vations: in New Mexico, near the Navajo
reservation; in South Dakota, near the
Sioux reservations; and, just this Au-
gust, in Billings, Mont., near the Crow
and Northern Cheyenne reservations.
Incidents aired even in recent hear-
ings sound like tales from the pre-
civil-rights Deep South. They ranged
from denial of service in public places
to police brutality to the failure to in-
"More than a deeply moving memoir, this is
a book of revelation." - Tngti.
Homeland
Security
goes
to school
a curriculum
of fear
University of Minpesotp Press
To order call 800-021-2736 ,.:•%ww.iiptess.umn.edu
LIVING for CHANGE
vestigate murders. In Northern Plains
states, USCCR members personally
observed staff in restaurants and stores
hassling or refusing to serve Natives. In
South Dakota, the commission heard
testimony about a police department
that found reasons to fine Natives hun-
dreds of dollars, then "allowed" them to
work off the debt on a ranch. USCCR
Rocky Mountain director Malee Craft
described the situation as "slave labor."
This is the context for Native deaths
at the hands of police.
The high rate of these killings is also
a result of the comparative dearth of
mental healthcare services for Native
Americans, says Bonnie Duran, an
Opelousas/Coushatta tribe descendent
and an associate professor in the Uni-
versity of Washington School of Social
Work. People threatening suicide and
experiencing other mental health crises
made up one-quarter of all those killed
by cops in the first half of 2016, accord-
ing to data collected by the Washington
Post; they made up nearly half of the
Native deaths examined by the Clare-
mont researchers.
Distraught people in these situa-
tions—such as Riley or Castaway—can
be particularly vulnerable. Commands
from multiple officers in a quickly de-
veloping situation can be very difficult
to parse, even for someone who isn't
As funding for mental healthcare
continues to plummet, police are in-
creasingly the first responders to men-
tal health crises that they are untrained
for and ill-equipped to handle.
In Native communities, the lack of
mental healthcare services is particu-
larly acute, according to an analysis of
CDC data by the Suicide Prevention
Resource Center (SPRC), and there's a
critical shortage of Native profession-
als who understand cultural factors
affecting patients. Data from the Na-
tional Congress of American Indians
illustrates this: In 2013, Indian Health
Service per-capita expenditures were
$2,849, compared to $7,717 per person
for healthcare spending nationally.
One indication of the situation's sever-
ity is the suicide rate for Natives, which
in 2010 was 16.93 per too,000, com-
pared with 12.08 for the population as
a whole, according to SPRC.
Mental health resources for Native
Americans are even scarcer off-reser-
vation, in the so-called urban-Indian
communities, where about half of the
Native population lives. There, clinics
are funded at a lower rate, says Duran.
This is also where the largest share of
police killings occur: 79 percent, ac-
cording to Chin.
Some police departments have re-
in crisis, says Jim Trainum, a former
Washington, D.C., homicide detective.
"Attending to conflicting signals
from multiple sources results in a huge
cognitive demand," says Melissa Russa-
no, a psychologist and criminal justice
professor at Roger Williams University.
"Split-second responses are required of
the individual. You have to assess if and
to what extent there is a threat, and that
may create a certain level of panic."
James and Steve Rideout (R),
return to the Tacoma street
where their niece Jacqueline
Salyers was shot, trying to
figure out how it happened.
OCTOBER 2016 23
The grassroots Native Lives Matter
(NLM) movement is attempting to
bring attention to the deaths, and to the
larger social and economic oppression
of Native Americans. Started in late
2014, the concept was inspired by Black
Lives Matter, says one of the founders,
Chase Iron Eyes, a Lakota attorney and
Democratic candidate for Congress
from North Dakota.
Neighboring South Dakota had been
scrutinized by USCCR in a 2000 report,
"Native Americans in South Dakota:
An Erosion of Confidence in the Justice
System?' In the hearings that led up to
the report, commissioners heard testi-
mony about racial profiling during traf-
fic stops, drunk drivers receiving light
or suspended sentences for killing Na-
tives, and, just as concerning to Natives,
the white community's denial of the ex-
istence of racism toward Native people.
On Dec. 19, 2014, Iron Eyes and other
Natives marched in Rapid City, S.D., to
draw attention to police brutality against
Natives. The next day, Rapid City police
fatally shot a Native man, Allen Locke,
who had attended the protest.
From the beginning, Iron Eyes says,
NLM was intended to encompass nu-
merous issues affecting Natives, from
child welfare to incarceration dispari-
ties. The Native Lives Matter Facebook
page and Twitter feed show the idea
has proliferated across Indian country,
with grassroots groups adopting the
slogan as an umbrella term to advocate
for environmental and social causes.
"We don't own it; everyone has a right
to it," says Iron Eyes.
Enter the Puyallup tribe (pronounced
p-YAH-lup), an economically power-
ful, 4,000-member Northwest Indian
nation with a successful casino, numer-
ous tribal and individual fishing en-
terprises, and a real-estate portfolio of
commercial and industrial properties.
The tribe's reservation intersects the
city of Tacoma, Wash., and members
report the same kind of police harass-
ment documented by USCCR in other
border communities, such as being
pulled over for "driving while Indian?'
Now, the Puyallup are seeking to en-
sure that police are held accountable
for their actions, no matter who the
victim—Native or non-Native.
The Puyallup were catapulted into
the issue of police violence on January
28. Shortly before midnight, Tacoma
police officers approached a parked car.
A convicted felon, Kenneth Wright, 36,
who was wanted on drugs and weap-
ons charges, was in the passenger seat;
his pregnant girlfriend, 32-year-old
tribal member Jacqueline Salyers, was
the driver. Minutes later, one of the of-
ficers had shot Salyers in the head, and
Wright had escaped into the night.
Almost immediately, relatives began
to question the police account of the
incident. They are now in the process
of conducting their own investigation.
There is no video record: Tacoma of-
ficers used no body or dash cams at
the time, a police surveillance camera
overlooking the street allegedly mal-
functioned during the event, and po-
lice apparently destroyed three secu-
rity cameras on a nearby house during
their investigation.
The city of Tacoma, however, freely
provided In These Times with hun-
dreds of pages of witness statements,
detectives' reports, 911 calls, logs of
police-vehicle movements, scene pho-
tographs and more, assembled for its
internal investigation.
According to the official account,
Scott Campbell, the officer who shot
Salyers, said that while on patrol, he
recognized Wright and, behind the
wheel, saw "a Native American female
that appeared to be around 3o years
of age?' His partner, Aaron Joseph,
stopped their cruiser across the street.
The two officers challenged Salyers
and Wright to put their hands up. Ac-
cording to Campbell, Salyers then ac-
celerated the car toward him; he says he
shot at her to save his life.
Of the eight shots discharged, four
hit Salyers. No shots hit Wright, who,
when apprehended weeks later, told in-
vestigators he had ducked down.
After the gunfire, the officers took
cover. Campbell told police investiga-
tors that he hid behind the bed of a
pickup truck with his pistol pointed
toward Salyers' vehicle. From this spot,
he observed Wright "climbing around in
the front of the vehicle [and] attempt-
ing to retrieve something from the rear
of the vehicle?' screaming "you fucking
killed her" and other accusations, clam-
bering over the "apparently shot female
exiting the car on the driver's side and
sponded by training officers in crisis in-
tervention, which teaches them to slow
down and find alternatives to the im-
mediate application of lethal force, or
by pairing officers with mental health
professionals on calls that clearly in-
volve such issues. Research is not yet
conclusive about what works best, says
Duran, but she stresses that the best so-
lution is to address the problem at the
root: Fund social services.
Native lives matter
0
IN THESE TIMES
IN THESE TIMES
running away, armed with a rifle.
The police account raises a number
of questions. Why did Campbell believe
shooting the driver would stop a car
that was in gear and underway? Why
would an officer duck, pistol in hand,
and watch while a dangerous wanted
criminal laboriously armed himself
and escaped into a residential neigh-
borhood? In what would undoubtedly
be a dangerous and quickly changing
situation, why didn't the officers call for
back-up or first look for a way to get
Salyers, a bystander, out of the car?
About half an hour later, two officers
removed Salyers from her vehicle—
dragged her, according to a witness
from the neighborhood—and put her
in a patrol car. According to Tacoma
Police Department spokesperson Lo-
retta Cool, "The suspect, in the area
with a rifle, would dictate moving to
a safer location to administer medical
aid" Cool declined to comment further,
citing the possibility of a lawsuit.
Once in the new location, Salyers
was dragged back out of the patrol
car and onto the pavement, where
Campbell performed chest compres-
sions. Medics arrived and Salyers was
pronounced dead. At some point, her
right arm was broken, but not by a
bullet; her family discovered this while
preparing her for burial.
Based on the Tacoma Police Depart-
ment's internal investigation and the
medical examiner's report, the county
prosecutor found the shooting justi-
fied. A review board later affirmed
these findings, announcing on August
16 that "Campbell's use of deadly force
was reasonable and within department
policy" Salyers' family strenuously ob-
jects to that conclusion.
'Everyone Is welcome'
The killing horrified residents of the
multi-ethnic Tacoma neighborhood.
Gary Harrison, a 48-year-old Africa]
American veteran, was awakened 1
the gunfire. The shooting happene
right in front of his home. "I saw [jad
ie's] car and so many police, for blocl
around:' he recalls. Two of his house
mates told the others, "They shot Jack
ie." He had known the young womar
"She always had a smile for you," h
says, eyes bright with tears.
At Salyers' funeral, her mother, Lis;
Earl, 53, called for justice—not only
for her daughter, but for everyone im
patted by excessive use of force by lam
enforcement. Her tribe took up the
challenge under the banner "Justice for
Jackie, Justice for All."
Following her killing, Salyers' rela-
tives met weekly at the Puyallup Little
Wild Wolves Youth/Community Cen-
ter, where Earl works, to mourn and to
plan a March i6 two-mile protest march
from the tribal headquarters to Ta-
coma's federal courthouse. Nearly 300
Corey Kanosh, an unarmed 35-year-old
Paiute man, died in the Utah desert
on Oct. 15, 2012. Police, believing
the car in which he was a passenger
to be stolen, chased it to a stop. After
Corey got out of the car, police shot
him and left him overnight. In the
morning, he was pronounced dead.
Pregnant, homeless and threatening
suicide, 34-year-old Suquamish tribe
descendent leanetta Riley was shot
and killed by Sandpoint, Idaho police on
July 8, 2014, seconds after they exited
their vehicles. Riley was holding a knife,
and her shooting was ruled justified.
On Dec. 30, 2014, just one day after at-
tending a Native Lives Matter protest,
Allen Locke was shot and killed by a
police officer in his Rapid City, S.D.,
home. A police investigation found the
shooting justified because the 30-year-
old Lakota man was holding a knife.
Rexdale Henry, a 53-year-old Choctaw
medicine man, was arrested in Philadel-
phia, Miss., for a minor traffic violation
and outstanding tickets. On July 14, 2015,
he was found dead in his jail cell. Henry's
cellmate was charged with his murder,
but the details of the death are unclear.
After telling jailers that she was in ex-
cruciating pain, Sarah Lee Circle Bear,
24, was found dead in her Aberdeen,
S.D., holding cell on July 5, 2015. Po-
lice later said the Lakota woman died
from a meth overdose, but her family
notes that she had been in police cus-
tody for two days before she died.
Mah-hi-vist Goodblanket, 18, a member
of the Cheyenne and Arapaho tribes,
was Tasered twice and shot seven times
in his Clinton, Okla., home by police on
Dec. 21, 2013. His mother had called the
police to request help keeping her son
safe during a mental health episode.
On April 21, 2015, Lakewood, Wash.,
police shot and killed 37-year-old Daniel
Covarrubias, when they mistook his cell
phone for a gun. The shooting of the
Suquamish man, a descendant of Chief
Seattle, was later ruled justified. His family
is calling for an independent investigation.
When Christina Tahhahwah, a Comanche
woman with bipolar disorder, refused to
leave her grandparents' house in Lawton,
Okla., police took her to jail—instead of to
the hospital, as her family wished. The next
day, Nov. 14, 2014, she was found hand-
cuffed to her cell door and unresponsive.
24 OCTOBER 2016
people turned out. Family and tribal
members were joined by other Tacoma
residents who had lost loved ones to po-
lice shootings and citizens involved with
other issues, such as workers' rights and
the environment. In May, family mem-
bers joined tribal council member Tim
Reynon on a trip to Washington, D.C.,
to press the Department of Justice's
Office of Tribal Justice for an indepen-
dent investigation of the shooting. At
press time, no decision had been made
whether to undertake one.
As time went by, others in the re-
gion—both Native and non-Native—
who had lost friends and relatives to
police killings began attending the
family's gatherings, which continue
regularly. They recount their sto-
ries in a traditional Puyallup talking
circle (during, which participants ex-
press themselVes in turn and without
interruption), then share a meal. Each
person is in a different phase of their
grieving, says James Rideout, 45, Lisa
Earl's brother. "They are in such ten-
der moments."
On the evening of June 20, In These
Times attended one of the meetings.
As participants filtered into the com-
munity center, they hugged, exchanged
bits of gossip and found places in a
circle of chairs. They were Native,
black, white and Latino, young and
old, united by concern about friends,
family and neighbors lost in encoun-
ters with the police. The scent of cook-
ing crab—gathered by Rideout in the
Puget Sound earlier that day—wafted
over the gathering, as participants told
stories of tragedy and survival.
Andre Taylor, 48, spoke about what
he called the "execution" of his brother,
Che Taylor, an African American shot
to death at age 46 in Seattle earlier this
year. Silvia Sabon, a 53-year-old Tlin-
git tribal member, described the death
of a 23-year-old Latino family friend,
Oscar Perez-Giron, whom she says
was killed on a bus platform by police
challenging his lack of a ticket. Afri-
can-American mother Crystal Chap-
lin, 52, said that in May 2015, Olympia,
Wash., police shot both of her sons,
Andre Thompson, then 23, and Bryson
Chaplin, then 21, in the back. Both sur-
vived, but Bryson was paralyzed.
"Everyone is welcome [at the meet-
ing];' says Sabon. "It doesn't matter
what color you are. We are all going
through the same thing."
Not alone
Though the family and tribal com-
munity have acknowledged the Native
Lives Matter movement, the thrust of
the Puyallup's efforts has been ecumen-
ical. This approach makes sense cul-
turally to the Puyallup. Their name for
themselves in their language connotes
"generous and welcoming behavior to
all people who enter our lands."
Philip Quinn's family called St. Paul, Minn.,
police multiple times on Sept. 24, 2015,
for help containing the 30-year-old, whom
they said was psychotic and suicidal. Police
shot and killed the White Earth Ojibwe man
as he ran toward them with a screwdriver.
On March 27 in Winslow, Ariz., a police
officer shot and killed Loreal TsIngine,
a 27-year-old Navajo woman who had
been holding medical scissors. Fellow
police have said that in training, the of-
ficer was unable to control his emotions
and was too quick to use his weapon.
Denver police officers claim that they shot
35-year-old Paul Castaway four times
on July 12, 2015, because he had come
"dangerously close" with a long knife. But a
video shows the Rosebud Sioux man hold-
ing the knife only to his own neck. Family
say he was having a schizophrenic episode
and needed assistance, not violence.
Raymond Eacret, a 34-year-old Yurok
tribal member, died in a Humboldt
County, Calif., jail on June 26, 2015.
Officers say that he hanged himself
with a makeshift noose, but Eacret's
mother says that her son's body looked
as if it had been brutally beaten first.
In a shooting that garnered national atten-
tion, John T. Williams, 50, was shot on Aug.
30, 2010 by a Seattle police officer who
claimed—against witness testimony—that
the Nuu-chah-nulth man had lunged at him
with a knife. A proposed police reform bill
in Washington state bears his name.
When jailed in Anchorage, Alaska, on Jan.
27, 2015, Larry Kobuk, 33, told the at-
tending nurse he had a heart condition.
4
Officers placed him face down in his jail
cell and forcibly removed his clothes as
he yelled that he couldn't breathe. Within
minutes, he was unresponsive; he never
regained consciousness.
On Dec. 16, 2012, at a travel plaza 35
miles north of Las Vegas, tribal police from
the Moapa Band of Paiutes Tasered and
then shot to death Marcus Lee, a 28-year-
old father of four. Lee, who was killed in
front of one of his sons, was wanted on
several warrants. The FBI cleared the of-
ficers involved in the shooting.
Wichita, Kansas police officers shot Karen
Day-Jackson, 45, a mother of three and
grandmother of 11, on July 10, 2012 Po
lice say the Eastern Shawnee woman came
at them with a knife, stabbing herself in
the chest and yelling "shoot me."
IN THESE TIMES OCTOBER 2016 25
•
IN JUSTICE FOA IRrKe JACKIE pat evr _I or All'
At the spot whe
Jacqueline Sal
lay on the pave ren
Puyallup tribal •'
have held candle 'g
"When the police killings happened
to people who didn't have a tribe to
back them up, they were alone, on their
own out there says Rideout. "When
our tribe took a position on this issue,
we realized we had an opportunity to
take care of them all, to bring them
along with us."
In addition, says tribal council mem-
ber Reynon, a tribe can be effective in
a ways an individual advocate or advo-
cacy group cannot. "We have a trust re-
lationship with the federal government,
so we are a sovereign nation with the
full weight of the United States behind
us. We also have the recognition and
respect of local governments?'
The Puyallup tribe supports a Wash-
ington state ballot initiative that seeks
greater police accountability for lethal
use of force. The bill that the initia-
tive would put before the legislature is
named for John T. Williams. He is one
of few Natives whose death-by-cop, in
Seattle in 2010, received more cover-
age. Then 50, he was shot by an officer
who first claimed 'Williams lunged at
him with a knife, though eyewitnesses
contradicted this. The shooting was
termed unjustified, but the officer nev-
er faced criminal penalties.
"With the ballot initiative, we want
to build a model for this issue that can
be replicated around the nation," says
Chester Earl, 42, Salyers' cousin. "On
January 28, our family was made part of
a circle of families throughout the na-
tion who are living with this issue?'
Puyallups have joined individuals
and groups statewide, like the NAACP,
that are collecting signatures; 250,000
are needed by the end of 2016 to put the
measure before the legislature.
When Seattle Mayor Ed Murray an-
nounced that he backed the bill, a Se-
attle Police Department representative
said, "We support the mayor's position
on the initiative, so by default, we sup-
port it?' It appears to be the only police
department in the state to issue a posi-
tive response to the potential change.
In another development, state legis-
lative leaders have appointed Reynon
to a new Joint Legislative Task Force
on Deadly Force and Community Po-
licing, a committee drawn from com-
munity groups as well as law enforce-
ment. The bill establishing the task
force acknowledges the danger police
are often placed in as they protect the
community, but it also seeks ways to re-
duce violent interactions between law
enforcement and the public.
"We have to find a solution that works
for everyone says Reynon. "It will mean
change, and change is never easy."
For Salyers' family, it's been a painful
process. "We never asked to be a part
of this:' Rideout says. "We always want
to stress the good narratives, our chil-
dren succeeding. But now that we are
involved, we must ensure that nothing
like this ever happens again?'
Justice for Jackie ... and Jennie
Tribal involvement means the pos-
sibility of real and lasting change to
Ramona Bennett, a Puyallup elder in
her late seventies. "People and move-
ments may fade, but a tribe doesn't
go away," says Bennett, a former tribal
chairwoman and long-time activist
who was gassed, clubbed, shot at and
arrested during 197os "fish-ins" to de-
mand recognition of treaty-guaran-
teed fishing rights.
The Puyallup have long been easy
victims in Tacoma, Bennett says. Tra-
ditionally, they lived in communal
longhouses, but late-19th-century
presidential proclamations and Con-
gressional actions broke up the reser-
vation and forced tribal members to
move to isolated cabins on separate
plots. "Fishing and trapping were out-
lawed, so the men went out at night,
making the cabins very dangerous:'
says Bennett. "White men would
come, kick the doors in, rape and mur-
der the [women] and throw their bod-
ies on the railroad tracks, where they'd
be called 'railroad accident deaths:...
We discovered in our tribal enroll-
ment office a stack of 'railroad death'
documents from 1912 to 1917!' Among
them was one that recorded the death
of Bennett's grandmother Jennie.
The Justice for Jackie, Justice for All ef-
fort will succeed, Bennett believes. "But
I'm still out for justice for Jennie ... a girl
who has been dead for 104 years?' E
This story was reported and written with
the support of the Fund for Investigative
Journalism and the Leonard C. Good-
man Institute for Investigative Reporting.
Student protestors
:from Howard University
,:tiemonstrate outside-the
White House Sept. 21.
O11, calling for a last- ..., tuteintervention to
p:Dayis' execution.
The Execution That Birthed a Movement
Troy Davis' death on Sept. 21, 2011, transformed Occupy and kindled Black Lives Matter
BY JEN MARLOWE AND KEEANGA-YAMAHTTA TAYLOR
ORDAN TAYLOR REMEMBERS
precisely when Troy Davis was
executed. It was u:o8 p.m. on
Sept. 21, 2011, less than an hour
before Taylor's 18th birthday.
"I had never heard his name before
says Taylor, who says he nonetheless at-
tended a rally fellow students at SUNY
New Paltz organized for a death row
inmate they told him was innocent.
On the threshold of adulthood, Taylor's
eyes were opened: The execution of a
Black man by the state of Georgia was
connected to Black America's overall
subjugation. "This new understanding
of what it was to be a young, Black male
washed over me he says.
Five months later, when Trayvon
Martin was killed by vigilante George
Zimmerman, Taylor helped organize
his campus's response. "Troy Davis
cracked the screen of reality and Tray-
von literally shattered it," he says. While
he had initially seen Davis' case as the
outcome of a broken system, he now
understood that the system was func-
tioning just as intended. Taylor later
became a founding member of Black
Lives Matter-Hudson Valley.
The current wave of racial justice
organizing is often traced back to Zim-
merman's acquittal, when the slogan
"Black Lives Matter" came into being.
But for Taylor and many others, it was
Troy Davis' execution that planted the
seeds of political consciousness.
Kenneth Foster Jr., an activist previ-
ously on Texas's death row (now serv-
ing a life sentence) puts it like this: " 'I
am Troy Davis' created a kinship among
victims and supporters. 'I am Trayvon
Martin' and 'I am Mike Brown' unified
and spread the message that this could
happen to anyone. This new awareness
fueled Black Lives Matter."
Davis was sentenced to death in 1991
for the 1989 murder of a white police
officer in Savannah, Ga. Despite the
absence of physical evidence linking
Davis to the murder—and several wit-
nesses who said police coerced them—
the state of Georgia doggedly pursued
his execution.
As her body was beset with breast
cancer, Troy's sister Martina Davis-
Correia led what became an interna-
tional campaign to save his life. The
mobilization was unprecedented for an
anti-death penalty case. From France to
Peru to Hong Kong, thousands took to
the streets. Fifty-one members of Con-
gress, President Jimmy Carter, Pope
Benedict XVI and former FBI Director
William Sessions appealed for clem-
ency. Hundreds of college students
in Washington, D.C., marched on the
White House in hopes of appealing to
the nation's first Black president to use
his power to stop the execution of an
innocent man.
But President Obama and Eric Hold-
er, the first Black US. attorney general,
said nothing.
"It was heartbreaking;' Taylor says of
Obama's inaction. "I didn't understand.
He's the president. The president has
this platform, and he's a Black man."
For the first time, Taylor, and many
others like him, questioned their faith
in Obama.
"People experienced [Troy's execu-
28 OCTOBER 2016 IN THESE TIMES
namic," says brandon king, a member
of the Malcolm X Grassroots Move-
ment who was arrested that night. In
the aftermath of the execution, says
king, "the conversation about police
violence and militarism became more
apparent:' Several weeks later, more
than 3o protesters were arrested in
tion] as a failure on every level of gov-
ernment:' says Thenjiwe McHarris, co-
founder of the anti-racist, anti-police
violence group Blackbird.
Though there were those (including
McHarris) who were never under the
illusion that putting a Black person
in the White House could eradicate
white supremacy, many Black folks
had hoped Obama's election would
help. To them, Davis' execution deliv-
ered a painful but eye-opening mes-
sage: Even under a Black president,
Black lives still didn't matter.
"It got a lot of us more enraged, be-
cause even with a Black president this
stuff still happened. That was an impe-
tus for a lot of organizing energy:' says
Cherrell Brown, 27, a community orga-
nizer who also works for the African-
American Policy Forum at Columbia
Law School.
Davis' execution not only prompted
protests against racism and injustice
throughout the criminal justice system,
but also helped catalyze the emergent
Occupy movement. On the night of
Davis' execution, McHarris and others
organized a group of his supporters at
St. Mary's Church in Harlem. Simul-
taneously, Occupiers who had just be-
gun camping at Zuccotti Park in lower
Manhattan held a vigil for Davis, using
the "people's mic" to amplify a message
Davis had given Amnesty International
USA the previous day: "The struggle
for justice doesn't end with me. This
struggle is for all the Troy Davises who
came before me and all the ones who
will come after me:'
On September 22, the night after
the execution, hundreds gathered at
Union Square for a Day of Outrage
for Troy Davis. The marchers, chant-
ing "We Are All Troy Davis!" merged
with Occupiers.
That night, for the first time, police
attacked Occupiers at Zuccotti Park,
pushing demonstrators to the ground
and arresting six.
This experience drew attention and
support to the nascent movement, as
well as sharpening its analysis. "Before
the Troy Davis execution, I feel like
Occupy had a completely different dy-
New York at an Occupy Wall Street-
backed protest against stop and frisk.
Meanwhile, Occupy protests continued
to pop up steadily in cities nationwide,
resuscitating civil disobedience and
militant protest:
On Feb. 26 2012, five months after
Davis' execution and the start of Occu-
py, Trayvon Martin was shot and killed
by George Zimmerman. "On the heels
of Davis' killing came another visible
case of a teen who was criminalized
and killed because of his Blackness,"
says McHarris.
In the wake of Martin's killing, thou-
sands of people across the country took
to the streets, with word of the protests
spreading rapidly online. Activists oc-
cupying Florida's capitol building after
Martin's killing posted real-time up-
dates on Twitter and Facebook.
Social media allowed activists to cir-
cumvent mainstream media that either
downplayed the activism or ignored it
altogether. It also allowed ordinary peo-
ple to remain connected to events long
after the news cameras stopped rolling.
"[With Troy], people realized we could
use [social media] to get a message out.
With Trayvon, that potential was fully
realized," says Cherrell Brown.
Brown was a college senior when
Troy Davis was executed. Though she
had organized efforts to educate stu-
dents about Davis' case on her North
Carolina campus, she felt that she
hadn't done enough. Three years later,
she watched from her Washington
Heights apartment as hundreds took to
the streets of Ferguson. "I remembered
how it felt to not be able to do anything
in Troy's case she says. So she set up a
crowd funding campaign to purchase a
plane ticket to Missouri. Upon arrival,
she connected with the Organization
for Black Struggle, a St. Louis-based
group involved in the Ferguson pro-
tests. "I didn't know this resistance was
possible," Brown says of the protests. "It
was beautiful to witness."
It's no coincidence that organiz-
ers involved in Davis' case, including
McHarris, played an instrumental role
in developing the August 2016 policy
platform of the Movement for Black
Lives, a collective of more than 5o
racial-justice organizations across the
country. The platform includes a call to
end executions.
"Troy's execution had an impact on'
folks," says McHarris. "A world that
honors Black life, Black joy, Black re-
silience—it cannot be one that includes
the death penalty."
Beyond this call, says McHarris, the
core of the Black Lives Matter move-
ment is honoring the resilience and
strength of those who fight for their
loved ones. As inspiration, she points
to the tireless advocacy of Davis' sister
Martina Davis-Correia. Human rights
activists worldwide mourned when,
two months after Davis' execution, Da-
vis-Correia passed away.
"She fought so hard. She taught so
many people what resistance really
looks like and what it means to love
somebody:' says McHarris. "Those
fighting to prevent injustices, like Troy's
[family], and those who fight after their
loved ones have been taken from them:
That love sits at the heart of any move-
ment for liberation. It's certainly at the
heart of this one:' r
`Troy's executions had an impact on folks,'
says McHarris. 'A world that honors Black
life, Black joy, Black resilience—it cannot
be one that includes the death penalty.'
IN THESE TIMES OCTOBER 2016 29
Best Practices
a community that suffers from a lack of
access to the resources it needs. And like
all public libraries, we are committed to
providing the information, resources, and
services our patrons need.
For me, "equity of access" came to
mind in a new way in light of recent
events, beginning with Orlando in June
and continuing through Baton Rouge,
Minneapolis, and Dallas. Librarians were
once again concerned with equity of
access—this time, access to thoughtfi 11,
critical conversations that engage wiLh
history, politics, prejudice, and culture
and that seek to situate current events
within a broader, richer context. It like-
wise became apparent that the public
library was the best place to foster those
conversations. As reactions from library
professionals emerged on social media, it
seemed imperative to recognize the pas-
sion and innovation that quickly became
apparent as our communitygrappled with
how to respond. I'm glad to feature sev-
eral ideas for starting these conversations
through book lists, which facilitate access
to information and help frame broader
discussions around complex issues.
Engaging Communities
Hennepin County (MN) Library
Throughout the first few weeks of July,
the Black Lives Matter movement came
to the forefront of a complex national
dialogue on race and justice. With a
twenty-four-hour news cycle propelled in
part by the blurring line between opinion
and journalism, it was readily apparent
for many librarians that the discourse was
incredibly polarized. At Hennepin County
(MN) Library, this intensity was an oppor-
tunity to provide much-needed context
for recent events, in hopes of fostering
conversation and understanding. Chelsea
Couillard-Smith, senior librarian, created
a book list just for teens, designed to
introduce them to the complex underpin-
nings of the Black Lives Matter move-
ment through fiction, nonfiction, and
poetry—and in particular, through stories
of teens actively fighting for social justice.
"I think a key part of the current social
discussion is the barriers in understanding
that divide our society," she said. "Books
build empathy by allowing readers to gain
insight into lives that are different from
their own."1 By including titles that fea-
ture African American voices, she hoped
to foster understanding between white
communities and communities of color.
Keeping public libraries' commitment
to intellectual freedom in mind, the list
also aims to inject much-needed histori-
cal perspective as well as diverse points
of view into the debate. In order to spark
discussion more widely, the book list was
shared on social media, allowing it to
reach people who are not library patrons.
The question of social justice and its
role in the public library can be a thorny
one. Libraries have an obligation to pres-
ent all sides of an issue, to provide pa-
trons with access to information without
prejudice. For Couillard-Smith, libraries
also have an obligation to educate. "I see
displays and book lists like those cre-
ated for Black Lives Matter as a natural
extension of the work public libraries are
already doing to bring communities to-
gether and empower individuals to create
positive change," she said.
You can access Couillard-Smith's Black
Lives Matter teen book list at http://bit.ly
/2axqgRA.
Reflecting Communities
Waltham (MA) Public Library
June is LGBTQ Pride Month, and Waltham
(MA) Public Library supplemented their
Pride display with six targeted book lists
designed to engage adults and teens
of diverse gender identities and sexual
orientations. Reference librarian Ashley
Wolff developed the lists following a
patron request for lists of lesbian fiction.
Expanding the scope to create individual
adult and YA Lesbian, Gay, and Gender
Identity book lists was a natural next step.
Wolff's popular book lists will con-
tinue after Pride month, helping provide
already-marginalized patrons with sup-
port from their library throughout the
year, particularly in the Iibrary'sYA room.
"[They'll be part of] a special section on
sensitive topics that teens can take out on
the honor system."2
For Wolff, that's social justice within
the library, ensuring that patrons who
are part of marginalized groups have ac-
cess to materials that reflect them. "Just
presenting information about people who
aren't the status quo is an act of social
justice," she said. "You are giving them
space, letting them know that they are
seen and that they matter. Bonus points
if it also educates someone else along
the way."
In focusing on potentially controver-
sial subject matter, like LGBTQ themes
or #BlackLivesMatter, there's also the
potential for criticism. For Wolff, when
the library's decision to display those
materials is challenged, the public
library's commitment to open access
itself constitutes an act of social justice,
because the alternative would be denying
access to materials—and worse, denying
representation of marginalized patrons.
"[It's important to] let our patrons know
that we see them and that they can see
themselves reflected in their library." For
more information, email Wolff at awolff®
minlib.net. Gil
Editor's note: How are you engaging with
these issues at your library?Tweet me
@writerlyamanda and share your
thoughts.
References
1. Chelsea Couillard-Smith, email interview
with the author, July 12, 2o1.6. '
z. Ashley Wolff, e-mail interview with the
author, July 12, 2016.
PUBLIC LIBRARIES JULY/AUGUST 2016 13
Diary
0 N 19 JULY 2015, a sullen, hot
day with white skies, an unarmed
black man was killed in Cincin-
nati. The incident began when Officer
Ray Tensing, a member of the University
of Cincinnati campus police, pulled over
Samuel DuBose, whose car was missing
its front licence plate. Tensing was wear-
ing a body camera, and when the Hamil-
ton County district attorney released the
video ten days later, on 29 July, Americans
watching the news that night saw about
two minutes of what happened.
After calling for back-up, Tensing pulls
in behind DuBose, who has stopped his
car on Rice. St, a pleasant green road out-
side the university campus. Tensing walks
to the car, and the men have a seemingly
amiable conversation. The officer is in-
sistent but polite, DuBose vague and in-
distinct (at one point, he hands over a
small bottle of gin). Tensing, addressing
DuBose as `sir', asks if he has his licence
on him. No, it turns out he doesn't. Tens-
ing asks him to unfasten his seat belt,
but DuBose turns on the ignition instead.
Suddenly, Tensing reaches into the car with
his left hand and shoots DuBose with the
revolver in his right hand. This last action
happens very quickly and in a blur: you can
hear the shot, but you can see the revolver
only in slow motion. The car moves for-
ward, brushing Tensing. He falls to the
ground. As his body cam jumps and, spins,
he rights himself and chases after the car,
which comes to ,a stop down the street with
a sickening noise as it hits a telephone pole.
In the front seat, Samuel DuBose is dead.
The Cincinnati video is one of more
than twenty visual records of police viol-
ence against black men, most of them un-
armed, that have surfaced in .the last three
years. Some of these videos were made by
passers-by or bystanders; their profane,
disbelieving remarks can be heard as they
comment on what is happening before
them. Some of the other videos were shot
by fixed surveillance cameras or, like Of-
ficer Tensing's, by the police themselves
with body cams or dashboard cams in
patrol cars. The recordings of homicides
and police shootings in Cincinnati, Cleve-
land, Staten Island, Houston, San Antonio,
North Charlotte, Chicago, Baton Rouge and
other cities have been taken into evidence
in criminal investigations and in civil suits
against local police forces. They have fuel-
led the Black Lives. Matter movement and
the gathering outrage over the difference
in arrest rates between whites and blacks
for the same crime. Looking at the videos
has also become a way of:grieving. 'I have
waited for .15 years for this moment,' Ta
Nehisi-Coates said on 24 November 2015,
when receiving the National Book Award
for Between the World and Me, his essay on
race and violence. Coates's close friend
Price Jones was killed in Virginia in 2000.
`When Price Jones died, there were no. cam-
eras. There was nobody looking. The offic-
er that killed him was not prosecuted. He
was not even disciplined by the police force.'
In the Cincinnati video, today's compuls-
ion to take pictures of everything reaches
a bizarre fulfilment: Tensing is both part-
icipant and witness; he is the shooter and
the detective investigating his own act-
ions. Instant video recording has the cap-
acity to dissolve the distinction between
actor and observer and sometimes between
witness and news reporter. The most extra-
ordinary of these participatory accounts
is the Facebook Live video — users can
broadcast whatever they are watching as
it is happening — recorded on 6 July in
Falcon Heights, Minnesota by Diamond
`Lavish' Reynolds. She was riding with
her four-year-old daughter in a car driven
by her boyfriend, Philando Castile, when
they were pulled over by Officer Jeronimo
Yanez for driving with a broken tail-light.
Reynolds turned on her mobile-phone cam-
era a few minutes later. As Castile sits
dying next to her, she narrates clearly and
urgently. Castile told the officer that he
had a licence to carry arms, she says, but
the officer began firing at Castile when
he reached for the licence. `Please, officer,
don't tell me that you just did this to him,'
Reynolds says. 'You shot four bullets into
him, sir. He was just getting his licence
and registration, sir.' As she speaks, Yanez,
still holding a gun on Castile, shouts in-
coherently (Tuck!' is clearly heard) but
doesn't call for an ambulance. Reynolds,
now in the back of a police car, continues
speaking plainly, methodically. `The pol-
ice shot him for no apparent reason,' she
says. Is she in shock? In denial? No, she
merely seems determined to set down the
reality of what has happened. But at last
she loses control. She screams, and her lit-
tle daughter in a tiny but firm voice can be
heard saying, 'It's OK. I'm here with you.'
We are confronted with violence in the
media all the time, but these-eight min-
utes of video are harrowing in their explic-
itness, their grievousness, their attempt to
make sense of the senseless. By recording
the reality of the shooting, Reynolds af-
fords herself a means of emotional surviv-
al. She also provides the rest of us with the
human response missing from the police
in all these videos: disbelief, rage, grief,
me recognition thatyet another younghTadc
man has been killed. The video, transforms
an excruciating personal disaster, a private
moment, into a public and political event.
If we are not police or prosecutors, not
a member ofa community-relations group
or a public commission on violence; if we
are just citizens, how should we respond
to these videos? What is their value, emot-
ionally and morally? Why look at them
again — or even once? No matter how they
were made, they are 'stories' that share a
common sequence of events and an aura
of terrible authenticity. Indeed, the videos
wouldn't have surfaced into public view if
they weren't narratives. Yet the particular
story they tell has a consciousness-altering
significance. As one watches, one thinks:
`This man who was alive is no longer alive.'
And that thought is followed by anger and
shame. Similar things were happening in
the United States long before cameras were
around to record them. A given video,
we realise, represents not just one life ex-
tinguished but many lives extinguished;
not just one instance of inept, maybe cnm-
inal police work but a stage in the, un-
ravelling of public trust in legal authority
itself.
I have spoken to people who refuse
to watch the videos because it would feel
prurient, or they fear becoming complicit
with the police; certainly the Cincinnati
videop in which we are bound to Officer
Tensing's body, is spooky and upsetting in
the way that it links the act of witnessing
to homicide. But that is a quirk of techno-
logy, not a moral failing of the viewer. And
the potential charge of voyeurism gives
way to the likelihood that looking at the
videos pushes the white viewer into a
new relationship with power and race. The
videos demonstrate white dominance oper-
ating against black men on the streets — a
sight that comes as no surprise to black
Americans, but could convince manywhite
people that African Americans have been
making sense about such matters foryears.
The videos show the police at their
worst, and only at their worst. We know
little of what happened before the re-
cording began; or of the officers' past be-
haviour and record. Nevertheless, the way
the police act in such moments can be
studied for intimations of commonly held
attitudes, the assumptions and expecta-
tions that exist before and after these
deadly confrontations. One looks for some-
thing else in the videos too: intimations
of the wider culture, a. culture in which
many of us consume violent images all
the time, on television, on the internet, in
movies and in video games. We may en-
counter the videos inadvertently, watch-
ing the news for example, but they don't
drop from the sky. No one who sees them
lives in a state of innocence.
In film after film, TV show after TV
show, the police are dogged, persistent,
sometimes clever, always tough. When they
commit violence, they may be 'unortho-
dox' or even ruthless, but they are mostly
in the right. In such movie series as `Dirty
Harry', `Die Hard' and `Lethal Weapon',
with their 'rebellious' cops; in such shows
as Miami Vice, NYPD Blue and CSI, with
their swashbuckling big-city guardians; in
such hard-charging films as The Departed,
LA Story and End of Watch, the police are
generally honest, often fearless exemplars
of legitimate authority in a complex and
ferocious society. In the long-running series
COPS, a half-hour 'documentary/reality'
show, camera crews ride with the police
as they pull over and sometimes spread-
eagle young black men against their squad
cars or on the ground. As we watch from
the police's point of view, the 'action' has
a queasy tinge of exploitation. Another
long-running TV series, Law and Order,
in its many versions, puts the issue of
legitimacy most explicitly: the police are
at the centre of a rational moral world,
in which investigation is followed invari-
ably by prosecution, a lockstep sequence
which may not always produce justice but
remains tirelessly cogent in its pursuit
of it.
Of the famous, shows, perhaps only the
David Simon classic The Wire adds the di-
mensions of fallibility and compromise to
the image of the police. Here the police
sometimes act with righteous violence,
sometimes not. Often they are stymiccl by
the peevishness and self-interest of police
bureaucracy. They live in the real world,
the fallen world: the attractions of crime
are far more potent than they are. But
how often does that version of police work
play in the heads of actual policemen? In
most popular culture, the policeman is an
avenger, and violence is justified by the
badge itself.
In life, we try to stay as far as possible
from lawless aggression, but in media and
art, we never stop feasting on it. Movie-
makers and TV directors shape violence
for beauty and strength, for excitement,
for development of style or character.
In art, violence can be an expression of
physical and even moral grace; at the least,
it is a fascinating spectacle. But the street
videos reveal actual violence as abrupt,
clumsy and stupid — as mostly a series
of preventable mistakes. In their hapless,
tawdry way, the street videos shame — dis-
enchant — the aestheticism of commercial
and high-art violence. The police can't be
guiltier than the rest of us in their viewing
habits, but they are possibly more deadly
in the licence they take from those habits.
And they are possibly so numb after com-
mitting violence because their entire view-
ing experience has told them that there is
nothing wrong with it.
In one of her last books, Regarding the
Pain of Others (2003), Susan Sontag dis-
cussed the ethical complications of look-
ing at 'extreme' images — in Sontag's case,
still photographs of war, the Holocaust,
ethnic cleansing. Sontag rejected the then
fashionable notion that the sheer abund-
ance of such images could lead to gen-
eral insensitivity — an indifference to the
suffering in the pictures, suffering view-
ed at a distance and always mediated by
technology and art. The understanding
of war among people who have not ex-
perienced war,' she wrote, 'is now chiefly
a product of the impact of these images.'
Similarly, we could say that the under-
standing of how the police handle black
bodies, on the part of those of us who have
never been handled ourselves, is chiefly a
product of the recent videos.
Such images, fully absorbed, can
change a culture. Some of the pictures
Sontag cited were so powerfully compos-
ed that they attained iconic status almost
instantly: Robert Capa's photograph from
1936 of a Spanish Republican fighter,
arms flung out as a bullet hits him (that
the photo may have been staged doesn't
alter its influence); or the image, taken in
Vietnam in 1972 by the AP photograph-
er Nick Ut, of terrified children running
from a village attacked with napalm. These
photographs came to represent, for many
people, the conflicts themselves. The first
image enlarged support for the Span-
ish Republican cause; the second fed the
growing popular opposition to the war in
Vietnam.
Classic war images are made by photo-
graphers consciously exercising their art,
and sometimes their political beliefs as
well. But the passers-by and participants
creating the street videos may have had no
particular intention except to record some-
thing unusual going on. A few may have
been more like gawkers slowing their cars
after an accident than passionate believers
in law and order. But that hardly matters
— moral purity is not required. The police
had drawn their weapons, and someone
troubled to notice what was happening
and make a permanent record of it. They
did it with the means at hand. Every cam-
era also imposes 'its own characteristics
34 LONDON REVIEW OF BOOKS 8 SEPTEMBER 2016
its strengths and limitations — on vis-
ion. But a mobile-phone camera probably
transforms actual events to the minimum
degree possible. Holding their phones out
in front of them, in a state of fear as well
as curiosity, the witnesses made images
whose force derives precisely from their
desperation and poverty, their lack of aes-
thetic intent. The images are clumsy, ugly,
bedraggled. Seen on TV or the internet,
they haven't been cleaned up, clarified, re-
framed or enhanced in any way. Photo-
graphs are often said to change ugliness
into beauty, but these photographs trans-
form nothing; in their palpably raw state,
they are as eloquent morally as they are
useful as evidence..
Sontag's chosen images were still
photos — moments frozen in time. In the
videos, however, events flow in time; one
thing happens after another, without edit-
orial shaping or emphasis. The inexor-
able forward movement brands the events
in consciousness and shapes our reactions.
In the videos made by passers-by, the spin-
ning, bucking camera becomes part of the
violence of the events, which includes the
distress of the photographer, who under-
standably can't hold his phone steady.
Images from static cameras have different
qualities. A fixed surveillance camera, re-
cording in Cleveland on 22 November 2014,
captured a 12-year-old African-American
boy, Tamir Rice, pointing a toy gun at
imaginary targets. The boy was playing
alone in a snowy park pavilion at the
Cudell Recreation Center. The video, shot
from across the way, is silent, the winter
colours so drab that it takes a while to
realise that the image is actually in colour.
We watch the boy, seemingly lost in a
reverie, walk out of the fixed frame, then
circle around and come back into view.
Does he imagine himself at the centre of
some dangerous exploit? Is he stalking
bad guys in hiding? He's like any other kid
playing alone with a toy gun, though his
toy was a plastic replica of an actual revolv-
er. The camera watches as police officers
Timothy Loehmann and Frank Garmback
pull up in their patrol car. After two sec-
onds, Loehmann begins shooting from
the car. Tarnir Rice was hit twice and died
the next day in hospital.
It turned out that the officers had ar-
rived at the park with limited informat-
ion. The Cleveland despatcher who sum-
moned the patrol car failed to pass along
key details from the 911 caller, including
their opinion that the person in the park
was 'probably a juvenile' and that the gun
was 'probably fake'. But could the officers
not have seen this themselves? In the
video, Tamir Rice looks small— he's certain-
ly not a full-grown man — and the police in
their car were a lot closer to him than we
are, in the position of the camera across
the street. Loehmann and Garmback have
been absolved of any legal culpability; ex-
perts appointed by the prosecutors claim-
ed that their behaviour was 'reasonable'.
Yet what we see offends reason. The offic-
ers may have arrived without necessary
information, but they were armed with
their instincts, and Loehmann's instincts
compelled him to start shooting a 12-year-
old boy with barely a hesitation.
The Cleveland video is not the only such
instance. In November last year the Chic-
ago police released a dashboard cam video
recorded in October 2014. A black teenage
boy named Laquan McDonald runs along
the central divider of a Chicago street.
Seen from the rear, he looks blithe, maybe
stoned and happy. He slows and veers to
his right as the police arrive in multiple
cars. He's holding a small knife, just barely
visible in the video, but as he moves away
from the police, one of the officers, Jason
Van Dyke, entering the fixed image from
the left, shoots him repeatedly — 16 times
in 13 seconds. The video is silent, so we
don't know what was said, but we can
see that the police did not attempt to dis-
arm McDonald as he walked away from
them.
These videos may reveal no more than
a fragment of a situation, but the viewer
can ask questions and draw conclusions
from what can be seen. The Cleveland and
Chicago videos break into public view as
individual disasters but also as symbolic
events in which licensed force obliterates
not quite innocence (Tamir Rice was wav-
ing a replica gun, Laquan McDonald was
holding a knife) but overwhelming vulner-
ability. The viewer, indulging the fantasies
of the impotent, asks: 'Why don't the pol-
ice take cover, negotiate, intimidate? Why
don't they use pepper spray, shoot bean-
bag rounds? Why don't they make arrests?'
In other words, why don't they treat the
young men as citizens? It's as if there were
some elementary reality that eluded our
understanding. Meaninglessness offends
the demand that violence make sense, that
it fall into some morally decipherable pat-
tern. But the decipherable pattern here is
that some police officers feel free to shoot
black men.
On 4 September 2014 in Columbia,
South Carolina, state trooper Sean Grou-
bert stopped Levar Jones, a 35-year-old
African American, for not wearing his seat
belt. As Groubert's dashboard camera re-
veals, Jones pulls into a convenience store
and Groubert pulls in after him, halting
perhaps 15 feet away. Groubert tells Jones,
who is standing outside his car, to get his
licence, and Jones quickly reaches in and
then springs out of the car — at which point
Groubert shoots four rounds, wounding
Jones in the hip. Absurdist black comedy
takes over: the two men fall out of the
frame and Jones can be heard asking, 'Why
did you shoot me?' Groubert, who ad-
dresses the man he has just shot as `sir',
tells him: 'Well, you dove head first back
into your car' — 'I'm sorry,' Jones says —
'Then you jumped back out.' Nervously,
Groubert reassures Jones that an ambul-
ance is on the way. In Groubert's version
of what happened, recorded a bit later in
the video, he tells his supervisor that Jones
acted aggressively — which is not what we
have just seen. (How many times, without
the recording of videos, have such cover
stories gone unchallenged?)
Despite the video's restricted point of
view, it reveals quite a bit: an officer los-
ing professional control, abandoning com-
mon sense and firing on instinct; and then
snapping back, attempting to reassert con-
trol and authority, and re-entering a norm-
ative ethical world in which you try to
help someone who is hurt, even if you
hurt him yourself. The video doesn't tell
us why Groubert lost possession of him-
self, though we can make some guesses.
What we see and hear is that Groubert
felt threatened by a black man moving in
and out of his car at the wrong speed. Grou-
bert was possibly so frightened of black
men that he believed he needed to shoot
before he got shot himself. Many such con-
frontations are fuelled by racial fear and
by mutual suspicion, emotions exacerbat-
ed by the American plenitude of guns,
which has the effect of dissolving com-
mon sense and normal hesitations. Would
a police officer in London or Tokyo or Ot-
tawa assume that a man moving quickly
was reaching for a gun?
In the videos that run on, we can see
what happens after the violence, and what
we see tells us a great deal about the
moral and emotional condition of urban
police work. In one widely seen video, re-
corded on 4 April 2015 in North Charles-
ton, South Carolina, we seem to have
joined in the middle of a movie, but a
movie that is savage, senseless, pitiless. The
image bucks, the camera pitches down. It
is held by a young man, later identified as
Feiden Santana, as he blunders along the
side of a fence. Once Santana has got a
good enough view, he holds the camera
steady and we see Walter Scott, a man of
about fifty, abruptly running away from a
policeman, Michael Slager, who then dis-
charges eight rounds from his revolver,
five of which hit Scott in the back. Scott
falls, and Slager, running up to the immob-
ile body, shouts: Tut your hands behind
your back!' Santana keeps his camera on
Slager as he returns to where he and Scott
had been standing earlier, and we watch as
Slager picks up his taser, which is lying on
the ground, and returns to Scott, drop-.
ping the taser by the body, as if to suggest
that the two had struggled over it and that
the struggle had produced the shooting.
We have the morbid impression that
some ritual is being enacted, a ritual de-
termined by years of experience and ex-
pectation, with each man locked into a
pre-assigned role and declining to exer-
cise the freedom of choice — the choice not
to run away, the choice not to shoot. But
this video and some of the others suggest
another possibility too — that the offic-
ers acted recklessly because they believed
they wouldn't be held to account no mat-
ter what they did. After Scott falls, an-
other officer shows up and, though. Scott
is surely dead or dying, handcuffs him.
The second officer doesn't attempt to give
Scott medical aid; instead, he searches his
body, and then the two policemen stand
around. As a separate video reveals, the
encounter had begun when Slager pulled
Scott over for driving with a missing tail-
light. In this video, recorded earlier by
Slager's dashboard cam, Slager gets out,
converses with Scott at his car, then re-
turns to his patrol car, at which point Scott
bolts. Those were Scott's crimes: a miss-
ing tail-light and then running away. As he
lies dead, neither Slager nor the other offic-
er seems particularly upset about a trivial
situation that has spun wildly out of con-
trol. We get the impression that for the
two cops, what has, happened is less a cat-
astrophic mistake than an unsurprising
outcome.
That impression of stolid unconcern, or
indifference, is unmistakeably present in
the notorious Eric Garner case. On 17 July
2014, in Staten Island, Eric Garner, a large
man with a record of arrests for minor of-
fences, was detained for illegally selling un-
taxed cigarettes on the street. A passer-
by, Ramsey Orta, muttering to himself,
films Garner, backed against a building
wall, as he says to the police: 'Don't touch
me! Don't touch me!' At which point Of-
ficer Daniel Pantaleo leaps at him, grabs
him in a choke hold and wrestles him to
the ground. As four other officers pile on,
Pantaleo pushes Garner's face into the pave-
mentwith his hands. 'I can't breathe,' Gar-
ner is heard to say, II times.
Again, a desultory period follows. Sil-
ent now, Garner doesn't move; but the of-
ficers handcuff him anyway without ad-
ministering CPR or any other first aid. One
officer says to him: 'Sir, the EMS [Emerg-
ency Medical Service] is here, answer the
questions, OK?' and then a young woman
takes Garner's pulse and says, 'Sir, we're
the EMS. We're here to help, right?' The
tone of these exhortations suggests that
Garner is faking or laying low. After a
few minutes, Garner is finally placed on a
stretcher and taken to hospital, where, an
hour after the assault, he was pronounced
dead.
We hear none of the policemen saying,
`My God, I think we killed this guy,' or any-
thing remotely like that— not in this video,
or in any other where a voice track is part
of the recording. An expression of open
emotion would no doubt violate unspoken
police codes; it could be seen by other of-
ficers as a sign of weakness — or of guilt.
The police are not trained to be martyrs. If
they feel threatened, they attack, and re-
gret is beside the point. But is it profes-
sional routine and professional pride alone
that account for the strangely affectless
behaviour? In both the Walter Scott and
Eric Garner incidents, it's as if the offic-
ers needed to stick to routine despite the
evidence of their senses; as if they needed
to believe that the man was so dangerous
that he remained a threat even when bad-
ly wounded or immobile on the ground.
Something more than ineptitude and pan-
itis there in these acts: refusing to accept
that a man is dead may be a way of refus-
ing to acknowledge that one bears any re-
sponsibility for his death. Feelings of pity
have been chased away, as far as we can
see, by fear.
Simone Weil, in her essay of 1939 on
the Iliad, defined 'might' as 'that which
makes a thing ofanybodywho comes under
its sway'. The police possess 'might' in a
privileged way; they embody the legitimate
use of force. In these encounters, they
turn a man into a thing and, as the videos
reveal, once a black man becomes a thing
his body may produce nothing but alienat-
ed scorn. The physical brutality is only the
first shock; the emotional brutality reveal-
ed by the negligent or hostile treatment
of the dead or dying body suggests deep
layers of callousness, a condition that
underlies behaviour on a day-to-day basis.
In ancient Greek civilisation a body could
become a 'thing', but abusing it or neg-
lecting it was an offence against the gods
as well as against the state.
David Denby
35 LONDON REVIEW OF BOOKS 8 SEPTEMBER 2016
PROFILES
JUSTICE DELAYED
Bryan Stevenson has saved hundreds on death row from execution. Now he has another roject.
I N 1989, A twenty-nine-year-old
African-American civil-rights
lawyer named Bryan Stevenson
moved to Montgomery, Alabama, and
founded an organization that became
the Equal Justice Initiative. It guar-
antees legal representation to every
inmate on the state's death row. Over
the decades, it has handled hundreds
of capital cases, and has spared a hun-
dred and twenty-five offenders from
execution. In recent years, Stevenson
has also argued the appeals of prison-
ers around the country who were con-
victed of various crimes as juveniles
and given long sentences or life in
prison. One was Joe Sullivan, who, was
thirteen when he was charged in a
sexual battery in Pensacola, Florida.
Sullivan's original trial, in 1989, estab-
lished that he and two older boys had
burglarized the home of a woman
named Lena Bruner on a morning
when no one was there. That after-
noon, Bruner was sexually assaulted
in the home by someone whose face
she never saw. The older boys impli-
cated Sullivan, and he was convicted.
They served brief sentences. Sullivan
was sentenced to life in prison, with
no possibility of parole.
In 2005, the Supreme Court de-
cided Roper v. Simmons, a landmark
ruling, that held that states could no
longer execute offenders who had com-
mitted their crimes before the age of
eighteen. At the time, the Equal Jus-
tice Initiative had several clients in
Alabama who had been charged when
they were teen-agers and were now
exempt from execution. To inform
them of the ruling, Stevenson went to
death row at the Holman Correctional
Facility. He described his visit to me
as we sat in his windowless office at
EJ.I.'s headquarters, a converted ware-
house in downtown Montgomery
"When I went down and started
talking :to. the guys and said, 'I've got
BY JEFFREY TOOBIN
great news, they're not going to exe-
cute,' it wasn't, like, joy, because they
were all still quite young," Stevenson
recalled. "It was just another kind of
death sentence. 'Oh, seventy more years
in prison."
But Stevenson saw an opportunity
in the Roper ruling. "The Court was
saying, in a categorical way, 'Look,
children are fundamentally different
from adults." If the Supreme Court
ruled that children were too imma-
ture to be sentenced to death, Steven-
son reasoned, then they shouldn't be
sentenced to life, either. In order to
push for an extension of Roper, he
needed to find a test case. He began
a nationwide search for inmate) who
had been convicted of crimes as juve-
niles and sentenced to life without
parole.
Joe Sullivan is forty now, and he
lives in the Graceville Correctional
Facility, a privately run prison in a re-
mote part of northern Florida. His
speech is halting and slurred, owing
to a long-standing mental disability
and to multiple sclerosis, which was
diagnosed more than twenty years ago.
"I didn't do nothing," Sullivan told me.
"I was just with the wrong people at
the wrong time. They said I'm the
mastermind to everything. They said
I did a sexual battery. I couldn't spell
sex' in those days."
On November 9, 2009, Stevenson
stood before the nine Justices of the
Supreme Court and began, "Mr. Chief
Justice, and may it please the Court:
Joe Sullivan was thirteen years of age
when he was arrested with two older
boys, one fifteen and one seventeen,
charged with sexual assault, ultimately
convicted, and sentenced to life with-
out parole. Joe is one of only two chil-
dren this age who have ever been sen-
tenced to life without parole for a
non-homicide, and no child has re-
ceived this sentence for non-homicide
in the last eighteen years." The Jus-
tices dismissed Sullivan's case on pro-
cedural grounds, but in a companion
case, argued earlier that day, they had
embraced Stevenson's argument: ju-
veniles in non-homicides could not
be sentenced to life.
After the decision, Stevenson took
Sullivan's case back to the Florida trial
court for resentencing. In light of
Sullivan's record in prison, the Flor-
ida Department of Corrections in-
formed him that he would be released
on June 30, 2014. Sullivan had had a
rough time in custody. As a young teen
in an adult state prison, he had been
the victim of numerous sexual assaults.
His current prison was not a violent
place, Sullivan told me, but his M.S.
had got much worse. "As he became
someone who couldn't walk, and
needed a wheelchair, the state was ter-
rible in recognizing his needs," Ste-
venson said. "He was basically in a
dorm where he was forced to walk
places. This caused mini seizures,
which will leave him more impaired."
Sullivan had had only sporadic con-
tact with his family over the years, and
his only visitors came from In
anticipation of his release, Stevenson
rented a wheelchair-accessible apart-
ment for Sullivan just outside Mont-
gomery. "Mr. Bryan, he's like my fa-
ther," Sullivan told me. "He gave me
a lot of hope."
Three weeks before Sullivan's sched-
uled release, he received a notice from
the Department of Corrections stat-
ing that his release date had been mis-
calculated. The correct date was De-
cember, 2019—more than five years
later. Stevenson has gone back to court
to challenge the department's deter-
mination, but Sullivan remains incar-
cerated. (State officials have declined
to comment.) "It's been very frustrat-
ing," Stevenson said. "We were just all
set. Joe sent me a Father's Day card. It
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Stevenson's Memorial for Peace and Justice will commemorate some four thousand lynching victims in twelve states.
PHOTOGRAPH BY RYAN PFLUGER
THE NEW YORKER, AUGUST 22, 2016 39
breaks your heart." Sullivan remains
hopeful. "I say, 'PUSH yourself every
day," he told me. "PUSH—Pray Until
Something Happens."
WAS THE SULLIVAN case a success
or a failure? It was, in one sense,
a great victory, because Sullivan, who
was facing the prospect of dying in
prison, will now be released at some
point. But, almost three de-
cades after he was incarcer-
ated, he remains in prison,
in a wheelchair. Of course,
Stevenson has experienced
grimmer disappointments
in his career as a death-row
lawyer. Stephen Bright, the
president and senior coun-
sel of the Southern Center
for Human Rights, told
me, "Many people do this
work only for a period of time. It's a
very brutal practice. Your clients get
killed."
Stevenson and his colleagues have
managed to slow, but not stop, the
death-penalty machinery in Ala-
bama—an enormous challenge in view
of the state's conservative and racially
polarized politics. Alabama has an
elected judiciary, and candidates com-
pete to be seen as the toughest on
crime. It's also the only death-penalty
state in which judges routinely over-
rule juries that vote against imposing
death sentences. (In their campaigns,
judges boast about the number of death
sentences they've imposed.) Alabama's
population is about twenty-seven-per-
cent African-American.The nineteen
appellate judges who review death
sentences, including all the justices on
the state Supreme Court, are white
and Republican. Forty-one of the
state's forty-two elected district attor-
neys are white, and most are Repub-
lican. The state imposes death sen-
tences at the highest rate in the nation,
but the Equal Justice Initiative has
limited the number of executions to
twenty-two in the past decade, and
there has been only one in the past
three years. "It's just intensive case-
by-case litigation," Stevenson told me.
'We've gone more aggressively than
anyone in the country on racial bias
against African-Americans in jury se-
lection. We have extensive litigation
40 THE NEW YORKER, AUGUST 22, 2016
on the lethal-injection protocols. We
identify inadmissible evidence. We
push hard on every issue."
But Stevenson, who is fifty-six,
has come to believe that the defense
of people enmeshed in the criminal-
justice system, while indispensable, is
an inadequate response to the deeper
flaws in American society. He served
on President Obama's Task Force
on 21st Century Policing,
and he has been an ally
of the Black Lives Mat-
ter movement. The recent
police shootings of African-
American men in Baton
Rouge, Louisiana, and out-
side St. Paul, Minnesota,
have increased his pessi-
mism. "These police shoot-
ings are symptoms of a larger
disease," he told me. "Our
society applies a presumption of dan-
gerousness and guilt to young black
men, and that's what leads to wrong-
ful arrests and wrongful convictions
and wrongful death sentences, not
just wrongful shootings. Theire's no
question that we have a long his-
tory of seeing people through this lens
of racial difference. It's a direct line
from slavery to the treatment of black
suspects today, and we need to ac-
knowledge the shamefulness of that
history."
After a TED talk in 2012, called "We
Need to Talk About Injustice," Ste-
venson is said to have received the lon-
gest standing ovation of any speaker,
and the talk has been viewed more
than five million times on the Inter-
net; it raised a million dollars for his
organization, and propelled a death-
row lawyer into a public figure. His
2014 memoir, "Just Mercy: A Story of.
Justice and Redemption," spent years
on best-seller lists. He is in constant
demand as a lecturer across the coun-
try, and he's booked for commence-
ment addresses years in advance.
As a longtime resident of Mont-
gomery, he often thinks about Rosa
Parks, whose refusal to sit at the back
of a local bus in 1955 set off the mod-
ern era of the civil-rights movement.
"We have reduced her activism to this
celebratory tale—It was all great,"
he told me. "Here's what most peo-
ple don't know. After the boycott was
declared officially over, and black peo-
ple were sitting on the buses, there
was unbelievable violence. There were
a dozen people who were shot stand-
ing waiting on buses. We had white
people going around Montgomery
shooting black people who dared to
get on the buses." For a time after the
boycott, the city shut down bus ser-
vice altogether. And then, to make
way for the 1-85 highway, the local
authorities, led by a state transporta-
tion commissioner who was also a
member of the Ku Klux Klan, bull-
dozed the city's major middle-class
black neighborhood.
Stevenson believes that too little
attention has been paid to the hos-
tility of whites to the civil-rights
movement "Where did all of those
people go?" he said. "They had power
in 1965. They voted against the Vot-
ing Rights Act, they voted against
the Civil Rights Act, they were still
here in 1970 and 1975 and 1980. And
there was never a time when people
said, 'Oh, you know that thing about
segregation forever? Oh, we were
wrong. We made a mistake. That was
not good.'They never said that. And
it just shifted. So they stopped say-
ing 'Segregation forever,' and they
said, 'Lock them up and throw away
the key."
That dark view of American his-
tory may explain a passage in "Just
Mercy," in which Stevenson describes
a failed attempt to stop the 2009 ex-
ecution of a forty-nine-year-old cli-
ent named Jimmy Dill, who had se-
vere mental impairments. He had
wounded a man during a botched
drug deal in 1988. Months later, as
the victim was recovering, his wife,
who had been caring for him, left
him, and his health deteriorated.
He eventually died, and Dill was re-
sentenced for murder. Dill's mental
impairments might well have enti-
tled him to a reprieve from the death
penalty, but he couldn't afford law-
yers, and missed various procedural
deadlines for appeals. When Steven-
son took the case, a few weeks be-
fore the execution, it was too late.
'After working for more than twenty-
five years," Stevenson wrote, "I un-
derstood that I don't do what I do
because it's required or necessary or
"I don't get all the hype about treadmill desks."
important. I don't do it because I have
no choice. I do what I do because I'm
broken, too."
tri HE FAMILY OF Stevenson's mother,
1 Alice Golden, like that of mil-
lions of other African-Americans, took
part in the Great Migration from the
rural South to the urban North in the
early twentieth century. They went
from Virginia to Philadelphia, where
Alice was born. She later reversed the
customary trajectory when she mar-
ried Howard Stevenson, in 1957, and
went south with him, a little more
than a hundred miles, to his home
town of Milton, in rural Delaware.
They had three children: Howard,
Bryan, and Christy.
"You have to understand that there
are two Delawares," Howard Steven-
son told me. "The north, around
Wilmington, is basically part of the
North, but we lived in the south, which
was part of the South. It was very rural,
very country. We lived basically in the
woods, farm Country. We lived next
door to my uncle and aunt, and he
used to slaughter hogs."
Their mother never forgot her roots
in Philadelphia. "She didn't want us
to grow up with a southern-Delaware
frame of mind," Howard said. "She
did all she could to make sure we never
forgot the rest of the world. There
were places around us with no run-
ning water, so Philly was the gateway
to the rest of the world." Alice Ste-
venson placed a heavy emphasis on
education; Christmas presents were
microscopes, not footballs. She also
had strong views on racial equality.
"Some of the black folks in southern
Delaware were much more deferen-
tial in the face of white people," How-
ard said. "Her style was different. She
didn't believe in accepting any kind
of racism." Once, when Bryan was in
first grade, she wrote a letter to the
town newspaper calling for the inte-
gration of the local public schools.
Another time, a few years later, she
protested when the town's public-
health officers asked the black chil-
dren to stand at the back of the line
to receive their polio vaccines. "She
made such an issue of it that for a
moment we weren't sure if they'd even
give us our shots," Bryan recalls.
In the sixties, when the Stevenson
children were growing up, the neigh-
borhoods, schools, and swimming
pools of southern Delaware were all
segregated, in fact if not by law "There
was never a time you could get the
majority of people in Alabama or Mis-
sissippi, or even southern Delaware,
to vote to end segregation," Bryan told
me. "What changed things was the
rule of law, the courts. Brown v. Board
of Education was ushered in by a
movement, but it was a legal decision.
And so, for me, I went down the law
path, because to be a politician trying
to do anti-discrimination work meant
you had to work in a handful of com-
munities that were basically majority
black." The jurisdiction of the courts
applied everywhere.
Both of Bryan's parents had long
commutes to jobs in the northern part
of the state. Alice Stevenson had a ci-
vilian post at Dover Air Force Base
and became what would later be called
an equal-opportunity officer, working
to insure that African-Americans re-
ceived fair housing and education. Al-
bert Stevenson was a lab technician
at a General Foods plant in Dover.
"We believed that our dad thought he
could feed us completely based on
what he snuck home from G.F.,"Bryan
told me. "I've avoided Jell-O since I
was ten."The Stevenson children ab-
sorbed their mother's lessons. How-
ard Stevenson is a professor of urban
education and Africana studies at the
University of Pennsylvania; Christy,
the youngest of the three children,
teaches music at an elementary school
in Delaware.
Bryan followed Howard to East-
ern College, a small Baptist-affiliated
school outside Philadelphia, where he
majored in history and philosophy.
Then he applied to Harvard Law
School, which turned out to be a dis-
appointment. "The courses seemed es-
oteric and disconnected from the race
and poverty issues that had motivated
me to consider the law in the first
place," he wrote in his memoir. But as
a second-year student, in December,
1983, he took a monthlong internship
at what was then called the Southern
Prisoners Defense Committee, in At-
lanta. Stephen Bright, the organiza-
tion's leader, happened to be on the
same flight to Atlanta as Stevenson.
"By the time the plane landed, we were
very close," Bright recalled. "Bryan had
found his calling." He joined the group
after graduating, in 1985, replicating
his mother's migration south—which
worried members of the family. "When
I heard he was going on his own down
there, I almost fainted," Fred Bailey,
Stevenson's cousin and a retired Phil-
adelphia police detective, said. "Bry-
an's a humble guy and a spiritual guy,
and he sees the good in everyone. But
he knew no one. And he had no fam-
ily down there."
Bright's group did death-penalty
and prisoners'-rights litigation in a
LANDSCAPE WITH LOANWORD AND SOLSTICE
Say yes
so I let him run me to the limits
in a pickup though I know better
than to expect
the chaparral
to grow much through trauma
except in order to withstand
extinction
though it appears
under the smog
supernatural.
CUT To: he shoves my face
into the flatbed then punts me
when he's filled me.
Walk home and I do,
scrub for miles
the darkest day of the year moving in
and out of comprehension
but I am glad
(hear me? I am glad)
because now it can be over.
—Lynn Melnick
courts and expect the courts to do the
things that they did sixty years ago, or
to create the kind of environment
where we could actually win."
Around this time, Stevenson began
studying Alabama history He didn't
have to look far to find it. The E.J.I.
warehouse is on Commerce Street, in
Montgomery; the original commerce
conducted there was in enslaved peo-
ple. E.J.I.'s offices stand at nearly the
midpoint between the dock on the
Alabama River where the human cargo
was unloaded and Court Square, which
was one of the largest slave-auction
sites in the South. Between 1848 and
1860, according to E.J.I.'s research, the
Montgomery probate office granted
at least a hundred and sixty-four li-
censes to slave traders operating in the
city. Thousands of people were auc-
tioned a few hundred yards from where
Stevenson practices law. Slaves await-
ing auction were held in chains on
the site where E.J.I.'s warehouse was
later built.
Montgomery has dozens of cast-
iron historical markers celebrating as-
pects of the Confederate past. Steven-
son wanted to put a marker up in front
of E.J.I.'s door, to point out the pres-
ence of the slave trade. "We went to
the Historical Commission and said,
`How do you get a marker up?" Ste-
venson recalled. He was told that if
he provided accurate information the
commission would erect a marker. E.P.
put together a sixty-page proposal for
hostile region and era. "We were the
dance band on the Titanic, this very
small group of eight or nine people
trying to hold back this tide of exe-
cutions in the old Confederacy," Bright
said. The lawyers divided up the re-
gion, and Stevenson, more or less by
happenstance, was assigned the cases
in Alabama. He showed an aptitude
for death-penalty litigation, which is
both emotionally taxing and techni-
cally demanding. Capital cases have a
complex choreography, involving mul-
tiple courts in state and federal juris-
dictions, all with their own deadlines,
rituals, and rules. Lawyers' mistakes
can prove fatal.
The crime rate rose in the late eight-
ies and early nineties, and the few
death-penalty lawyers in the South
became overwhelmed. In response, a
group of lawyers and judges persuaded
Congress to fund several state-based
death-penalty defense organizations,
called resource centers. In 1989, Ste-
venson, who was still in his late twen-
ties, was appointed to run the Ala-
bama operation. When Republicans
took control of Congress after the 1994
midterm elections, one of their first
acts was to eliminate funding for the
resource centers. Stevenson turned
the Alabama resource center into a
nonprofit, the Equal Justice Initiative,
which survived largely because he was
awarded a MacArthur grant the fol-
lowing year, and he used the cash, about
three hundred thousand dollars, to
keep the organization afloat.
In time, Stevenson achieved a mea-
sure of economic stability for E.J.I.,
thanks mostly to grants from various
foundations and a yearly fund-raiser
in Manhattan. (With an annual op-
erating budget of six million dollars,
the organization now employs seven-
teen full-time attorneys and twelve
legal fellows, young lawyers who spend
two years with the group.) "We were
having success in overturning these
convictions that are wrongful, but it
became clear that race was the big
burden," Stevenson told me. "By 2006
or 2007, I had begun to realize that
we were going to have to get outside
the courts and create a different nar-
rative about race, race consciousness,
racial bias, and discrimination in his-
tory before we can go back into the
42 THE NEW YORKER, AUGUST 22, 2016
1110
three markers commemorating the
slave trade. Norwood Kerr, of the Al-
abama Department of Archives and
History, e-mailed E.J.I. in response:
I have considered your request for the Ala-
bama Historical Association to support the
placement of three historical markers relating
to the city's slave trade. While your scholarship
appears accurate . . . I do not think it is in the
best interests of the Association to sponsor the
markers given the potential for controversy.
FOR SEVERAL YEARS, Stevenson has
taught part time at the New York
University School of Law, but he
doesn't have his own apartment in the
city. He lives on his N.Y.U. earnings
and takes no salary from E.J.I. His
personal style is nearly ascetic. He has
never married. Keeping a promise that
he made to his grandmother when he
was a teen-ager, he has never let a
drop of alcohol pass his lips. (Alco-
holism plagued his family.) For years,
he lived in a series of small apartments
in Montgomery, until he decided to
renew his commitment to the piano,
which he once played semi-profes-
sionally in jazz groups. He decided to
buy a piano, then a house, but rarely
finds time to play. E.J.I. has no devel-
opment staff, so Stevenson must raise
the six-million-dollar budget virtu-
ally alone. Between fund-raising and
court appearances, he travels inces-
santly. Before one of my visits to
Montgomery, he had been on planes
for twelve consecutive days; before
another, seven days.
He has cultivated a network of sup-
porters around the country. In the EJ.I.
break room, a state-of-the-art Star-
bucks machine dispenses free coffee.
Since lawyers tend to work late, it gets
a lot of use. "This machine has saved
lives," Sia Sanneh, a senior attorney
for E.J.I., told me. Howard Schultz,
the chief executive of Starbucks, said,
"Just by coincidence, two people sent
me Bryan's book at the same time, and
I read it in two or three sittings. I was
so moved by his story and his selfless
acts, and his humanitarianism, that I
reached out and called him cold." They
arranged to meet in New York, and
then Schultz and his wife visited E.J.I.
in Montgomery. "We all meet inter-
esting people, and some of the people
don't live up to their press," Schultz
said. "Bryan is one of the rare individ-
uals who exceed your expectations."
Schultz arranged for "Just Mercy" to
be displayed at Starbucks counters for
a month; some forty-five thousand
copies were sold. Schultz also donated
the coffee machine.
The world of public-service law-
yering can be competitive and petty,
even among ideological allies, but Ste-
venson's colleagues speak of him with
something close to awe. "Bryan is ab-
solutely in a class of his own," Chris
Stone, the president of George Soros's
Open Society Foundations, which has
funded E.J.I., said. "He is a modest,
straightforward, ordinary person, and
yet he is magical. He is a gift to this
country and to a cause that would not
be the same without him." Darren
Walker, the president of the Ford
Foundation, said, "Bryan is one of the
transformational leaders of my gen-
eration. He is one of the great pro-
phetic voices of our era." Barry Scheck,
the co-founder of the Innocence Proj-
ect, said, "Bryan is without question
the most inspirational lawyer of our
times, not just because he's/charis-
matic, and also a brilliant litigator, but
because he connects emotionally with
people like no one else." Anthony
Romeo, the executive director of the
American Civil Liberties Union, said,
"Most of us who do this kind of work
are good. He's head and shoulders
above us all. He's a genius.
He's our Moses."
For all the ties he has
forged around the nation,
Stevenson is at this point
an Alabaman. He knows
where to find the pressure
points in the local system,
a knowledge that he put
to good use after the Ala-
bama Historical Associa-
tion rejected his petition. He
enlisted a small organization devoted
to African-American history in Ala-
bama as an alternative sponsor. In 2013,
E.J.I., with its new ally, was allowed
to put up three markers in downtown
Montgomery.
During the controversy, Stevenson
visited the University of Texas Law
School, in Austin, for a conference on
the relationship between the death pen-
alty and lynching. Jordan Steiker, the
professor who convened the meeting,
told me, "In one sense, the death pen-
alty is clearly a substitute for lynching.
One of the main justifications for the
use of the death penalty, especially in
the South, was that it served to avoid
lynching. The number of people exe-
cuted rises tremendously at the end of
the lynching era. And there's still in-
credible overlap between places that
had lynching and places that continue
to use the death penalty." Drawing on
the work of such noted legal scholars
as David Garland and Franklin Zim-
ring, Steiker and his sister Carol, a pro-
fessor at Harvard Law School, have
written a forthcoming book, "Courting
Death: The Supreme Court and Cap-
ital Punishment," which explores the
links between lynching and state-spon-
sored executions. The Steikers write,
"The practice of lynching constituted
`a form of unofficial capital punishment'
that in its heyday was even more com-
mon than the official kind."
Lynchings, which took the form of
hangings, shootings, beatings, and
other acts of murder, were often pub-
lic events, urged on by thousands, but
by the nineteen-thirties the behavior
of the crowds had begun to draw crit-
icism in the North. "The only reason
lynchings stopped in the American
South was that the spectacle of the
crowds cheering these murders was
becoming problematic," Stevenson told
me. "Local law enforcement
was powerless to stop the
mob, even if it wanted to. So
people in the North started
to say that the federal gov-
ernment needed to send in
federal troops to protect
black people from these acts
of terror. No one in power
in the South wanted that—
so they moved the lynchings
indoors, in the form of exe-
cutions. They guaranteed swift, sure,
certain death after the trial, rather than
before the trial."
In 2007, Sherrilyn Ifill, the pres-
ident and director-counsel of the
N.A.A.C.P. Legal Defense Fund, pub-
lished "On the Courthouse Lawn,"
which focussed on two lynchings in
Maryland. "What I learned is that an
alarming number of lynchings took
place not in secret, in the woods, but
in public, on the beautiful lawns that
14
THE NEW YORKER, AUGUST 22, 2016 43
are still there in all these communi-
ties," Ifi11 told me. "And there is noth-
ing to commemorate these lynchings
on those lawns, which are in the cen-
ter of every town in the S outh." Lynch-
ings were often covered in local news-
papers, and sometimes even previewed
in them, and these records were in-
dispensable resources for the E.J.I.
researchers.
The staffers at Eli., in addition to
their legal duties, attempted to iden-
tify every lynching that took place in
twelve states. They found records for
about four thousand lynchings, roughly
eight hundred more than in previous
counts. Stevenson became convinced
that lynching had a historical and a
contemporary relevance that needed
to be more visible. At first, he imag-
ined erecting more historical markers,
but he soon expanded his plan. "One
factor, to be honest, was that we started
talking about a memorial for 9/11 vic-
tims within five years," he said. "It's
not as if we haven't waited long enough
to begin the process of a memorial for
lynching. So that's when it became
clear to me that, in addition to the
markers, we needed to be talking about
a space, a bigger, deeper, richer space.
The markers will give you a little
snapshot, but we need to tell the
whole story."
O N A STEAMY Saturday morning
in May, about a hundred volun-
teers assembled at the warehouse. Ste-
venson commands a stage without
being especially commanding. He's of
average height, with a shaved head—a
concession to encroaching baldness—
and he has the politician's gift for mak-
ing his set pieces sound as if he were
delivering them for the first time.
"I continue to believe that we're not
free in this country, that we're not free
at birth by a history of racial injus-
tice," he told a diverse group of stu-
dents, retirees, local activists, and sup-
porters from around the country. "And
there are spaces that are occupied by
the legacy of that history that weigh
on us. We talk a lot about freedom.
We talk a lot about equality. We talk
a lot about justice. But we're not free.
There are shadows that follow us."
His cadence alternates between
preachy intensity and lawyerly restraint.
44 THE NEW YORKER, AUGUST 22, 2016
As Henry Louis Gates, Jr., the Har-
vard professor, put it, "There are two
different streams of rhetoric in the
African-American tradition, the sa-
cred and the secular. Martin Luther
King didn't sound like Thurgood Mar-
shall. You can't argue in court like you're
preaching in the Abyssinian Baptist
Church. But scholars like Cornel West
and Michael Eric Dyson in recent
years have drawn from both traditions.
Bryan does, too."
Stevenson told the group, "If you'd
come to Montgomery a few years ago,
you'd find a city with more than fifty
markers or monuments to the Con-
federacy but hardly a word about slav-
ery. And it's not like in the South we
don't want to talk about the past. We
love talking about the past." He noted
that Alabama still observes Confed-
erate Memorial Day (the last Mon-
day in April) and Jefferson Davis's
birthday (celebrated on the first Mon-
day in June). In lieu of a separate
Martin Luther King, Jr., Day, the
state celebrates a joint Martin Liither
King, Jr.—Robert E. Lee holiday. He
also pointed out that the two largest
high schools in Montgomery are Rob-
ert E. Lee High and Jefferson Davis
High. "Both overwhelmingly black."
The group had gathered to partic-
ipate in Stevenson's project to com-
memorate the history of lynching.
"Lynching was racial terrorism," he
said. "Old people of color come up to
me sometimes and say, 'Mr. Steven-
son, I get so angry when I hear some-
one on TV talking about how they're
dealing with domestic terrorism for
the first time in our nation's history
after 9/11. You need to make them
stop saying that, because that's not
true.' People who had endured lynch-
ings and bombings and threats had a
tremendous shape on our lives. We
haven't done a very good job of un-
derstanding the legacy of lynching,
but the black people that are in Cleve-
land and Chicago and Detroit and
Los Angeles and Oakland and Bos-
ton and Minneapolis did not go to
those communities merely as immi-
grants looking for new economic op-
portunities. They went to those com-
munities as refugees and exiles from
the American South."
After Stevenson's speech, the vol-
unteers headed out in small teams to
fill gallon-size glass jugs with soil from
the sites of the three hundred and
sixty-three lynchings that E.J.I. had
documented in Alabama. Many of the
sites are approximate, and the soil
project, which has been going on for
about a year, is meant to be symbolic
rather than scientific. Along the back
wall of the room where Stevenson was
speaking were about a hundred jugs
already filled with soil. The colors of
the soil samples varied, from nearly
black, in the Black Belt communities
across the middle of the state (which
was named for its rich soil as well as
for its ethnic composition), to the tan,
sandy soil from the Gulf Coast, around
Mobile. The names of the victims and
the dates of their deaths, which ranged
from 1877 to 1950, are marked on
the jugs.
The soil-collection project is part
of a plan to erect the first national me-
morial to lynching victims, to be built
on six acres of vacant land in down-
town Montgomery. The project will
cost twenty million dollars, and will
include a museum at E.J.I. headquar-
ters. It will transform the look, and per-
haps the reputation, of Montgomery.
A key part of the plan is a dare to the
communities in which the lynchings
took place. "We're going to name thou-
sands of people who were the victims
oflynchings," Stevenson told the group
before they received their trowels and
jars. "We're going to create a space
where you can walk and spend time
and go through that represents these
lynchings. But, more than that, we're
going to challenge every county in this
country where a lynching took place
to come and claim a memorial piece—
and to erect it in their county."
MONTGOMERY OFFERS THE prol-
ect a rich civil-rights history and
low-priced real estate. For the most
part, the streets of downtown are quiet,
and the sidewalks are empty. (There
is no Starbucks.) Stevenson was able
to assemble six and a half acres of
contiguous abandoned lots that were
once the site of a failed public-hous-
ing complex, for about six hundred
thousand dollars. It's a fifteen-minute
walk from the warehouse, and up a
small hill above the Greyhound bus
station where the Freedom Riders were
assaulted in 1961.
From a distance, the lynching me-
morial, designed by Michael Murphy
and a team from the MASS Design
Group, of Boston, will look like a long,
low colonnade. Once visitors enter the
structure and follow the path down-
hill, they will see that the columns are
hanging .in the air, as if from trees.
Each column is six feet tall. The cur-
rent plans call for the soil collected by
volunteers to be used in coloring their
exteriors. There will be eight hundred
and one columns, one for each county
and state in which a lynching took
place. The names of the victims and
the dates of the lynchings will be in-
scribed on the columns.
The memorial also has a more
provocative component. Adjacent to
the colonnade will be another eight
hundred and one columns, exact du-
plicates. Each county in which a lynch-
ing took place will be invited to re-
move its memorial column and display
it in its own community. The columns
that remain in Montgomery will stand
in mute rebuke to the places that re-
fuse to acknowledge their history of
lynching. "For us, it's the kind of ac-
tivism that has clarity, purpose, and a
goal," Stevenson told me. "Sometimes
the goals aren't very clear or very well
articulated, and you don't know whether
you're getting closer or not. This will
give us a way of measuring that. We'll
know the places that are resisting, and
it should build pressure on those com-
munities, and the people in those com-
munities, that are either not doing
enough or need to do more."
The city of Montgomery has come
to embrace Stevenson's plans, in the
name of economic development.
Mayor Todd Strange told me last
spring, "We certainly appreciate the
fact that it's going to lead to a big
influx of people who want to come
and gain some understanding. Those
are good, clean tourist dollars." But
he was also aware that, as he put it,
"history is a battlegrc' •rid." Stevenson
has been cautious about unveiling the
project, which recently completed
the zoning-approval process. Plans for
the memorial had been mentioned
only briefly in the Advertiser, the local
daily. Strange told me, "Bryan has
wanted it quiet. We still today have
not made an announcement relative
to the museum and the memorial park."
For the moment, Stevenson has given
the project the generic name of the
Memorial for Peace and Justice, which
provides no clue that it's all /about
lynching.
The reaction of Dick Brewbaker, a
Republican state senator who represents
a district in Montgomery, may presage
a less warm welcome. Brewbaker, who
is a prominent auto dealer, was not
aware of the project when I asked him
about it. "If he wants to do it, he needs
to do it with private funds,"Brewbaker
said. (Stevenson has used no govern-
ment funds.) Brewbaker went on, "Why
is racially motivated violence worse
than any other kind of violence? I don't
give a damn what the motive of the
offender was if an act of violence was
committed. Interjecting even more
race talk into Alabama's politics is
not productive." Brewbaker noted that
Montgomery has several museums
about the civil-rights era, including
one devoted to Rosa Parks, another
to the Freedom Riders, and a third
to the movement as a whole (at the
Southern Poverty Law Center). "I'd
say the imbalance has been corrected
pretty quickly, especially when you
consider the Confederate symbols that
have been removed." In 2015, Gover-
nor Robert Bentley ordered the re-
moval of Confederate battle flags from
the grounds of the Capitol. The flags
are gone, but the plaques that described
them remain.
Stevenson's first round of fund-rais-
ing for the memorial and the museum
has garnered a two-million-dollar
commitment from the Ford Founda-
tion and a million dollars from the
charitable arm of Google; he has also
earned more than a million from his
book, the sale of movie rights, and his
relentless speechmaking. That still
leaves a considerable gap for a twenty-
million-dollar undertaking, which
Stevenson hopes, optimistically, will
open in 2017. For the moment, he bears
the financial burden himself Darren
Walker, of the Ford Foundation, told
me, "One of the things I've wanted
to do is help Bryan situate his insti-
tution in a way that is durable and
resilient and not so reliant on him as
a charismatic leader." To that end,
the Foundation has given E.J.I. a grant
to hire a professional development
staff.
I wondered how someone who was
successfully juggling so many respon-
sibilities could describe himself as "bro-
ken." Stevenson told me about the
moment when he was talking to his
client Jimmy Dill, just before Dill was
executed, in 2009. "I've been in that
setting before, but there was some-
thing different about this, because the
man had this speech impediment,"
Stevenson said. "He couldn't get the
words out, and he was going to use
the last few minutes of his life—his
"It's not a huge role, but it is Shakespeare. I get to
ask the king if he wants bottled or tap."
•
last struggle was going to be devoted
to saying to me, 'Thank you' and 'I
love you for what you're trying to do.'
I think that's what got to me in a way
that few things had. And I, for the
first time in my career, just thought,
Is there an emotional cost, is there
some toll connected to being proxi-
mate to all this suffering? I think that's
when I realized that my motivation
to help condemned people—it's not
like I'm some whole person trying to
help the broken people that I see along
the road. I think I am broken by the
injustice that I see."
AFTER STEVENSON SPOKE at the
..warehouse on that Saturday
morning this spring, a fiftyish volun-
teer named Susan Enzweiler, who had
recently retired from a job in historic
preservation, received an assignment
to visit the site of the lynching of a
man named Ebb Calhoun. He died
on April 29, 1907, in the village of
Pittsview, on Alabama's border with
Georgia. According to the materials
provided by E.J.I., on the day before
the attack Calhoun's son reportedly
walked between a white man and his
daughter on the street, brushing against
the woman. The white man, a "prom-
inent merchant," according to a con-
temporary report, shoved the son to
the ground; the man was already "an-
noyed by the boisterousness of a large
crowd of negroes" in the town that
day. E.J.I. gave the approximate ad-
dress for the lynching as 88 Le Conte
Street, in what was described as the
central business district of Pittsview.
When Enzweiler and I arrived in
Pittsview, we found what appeared to
be the shell of a business district. A
convenience store and a one-room
post office survived, but the structure
at what might have been 88 Le Conte
was a crumbling brick building. Enz-
weiler studied the arrangement of the
bricks. When bricks were more frag-
ile and less standardized than they
are today, builders would alternate
"stretchers" (bricks laid lengthwise)
with "headers" (bricks with the short
side exposed). There were headers
every six rows in the building, which
Enzweiler took to mean that it was
constructed around the beginning of
the twentieth century. It had proba-
•
bly been standing at the time of the
lynching.
As Enzweiler was looking around,
a woman drove up to the post office,
across the street. She was a letter car-
rier. She said that her route covered
Pittsview and the neighboring town
of Cottonton. "Pittsview is majority
black and minority white," she said.
"Cottonton is the opposite." She said
that the residents on Le Conte where
Enzweiler was standing were all white;
the residents farther up the block, on
the other side of a traffic light, were
all black. The road of demarcation be-
tween the racial enclaves was called
Prudence.
Stevenson had asked the volunteers
to try to imagine the events that led
•
to the lynchings. Ebb Calhoun had
returned the next day to the site of his
son's confrontation. Several white men,
including the merchant who had had
the altercation with the son, harassed
Ebb and then accused him of firing a
shot at a visitor from Columbus. A
group of whites assembled, surrounded
Calhoun, and then shot him dead.
"This was the main drag. They exe-
cuted him in a public place," Enzwei-
ler said. "Mr. Calhoun must have
known what was going to happen. He
was trying to protect his son, taking
the hit that was probably meant for
him. Ebb was a hero." She took out
her trowel, bent over to brush away
pieces of crumbled brick, and began
to fill her glass jar with soil. •
THE NEW YORKER, AUGUST 22, 2016 47
Date: September 27, 2016 Agenda Item #: IX.A.
To:Human Rights and Relations Commission Item Type:
Other
From:MJ Lamon, Project Coordinator
Item Activity:
Subject:Flyer: October 10 Event Information
CITY OF EDINA
4801 West 50th Street
Edina, MN 55424
www.edinamn.gov
ACTION REQUESTED:
None.
INTRODUCTION:
ATTACHMENTS:
Description
Flyer: October 10 Event
tribal and Federal Law on indian Reservations
Speakers
Colette Routel, J.D., Professor and Co-Director, Indian Law Program,
Mitchell Hamline School of Law
FBI Supervisory Special Agent Daniel Genck, Supervisor, Civil Rights Squad
World Without Genocide at Mitchell Hamline School of Law
admin@worldwithoutgenocide.org l 651-695-7621 l www.worldwithoutgenocide.org
Monday, October 10, noon-1:00 pm (pizza included)
1:00-1:30 pm, Human Rights Committee Meeting
Room 123, Mitchell Hamline School of Law
875 Summit Avenue, St. Paul, MN 55105
Native American Law
Students Association and the
Office of Diversity and Inclusion
Human Rights Committee
Co-sponsors
talk,
St. Paul Deparment of
Human Rights and Equal
Economic Opportunity
Free and open to the public. No reservations necessary.
Law students especially invited.
1 standard CLE credit (pending).
Commemorating American lndian and lndigenous Peoples’ Day,
recognized in St. Paul, Minneapolis, Red Wing, and Grand Rapids
FBI Citizens Academy
Alumni Association