Vocation

Last week, I had the privilege of attending a film screening of a new documentary entitled “Whose Streets?” followed by an outstanding panel discussion featuring one of the filmmakers, Damon Davis, rapper Tef Poe, and professors from the sociology and history departments and the School of Theology and Social Work. The film is about the protests in Ferguson, Missouri after the shooting of Micheal Brown, an unarmed teenager, by a police officer in August 2014.

There are so many reasons why this film is important, but I want to start out by explaining why I felt such a need to see it. Micheal Brown was killed on August 9, 2014, my eighteenth birthday. We were the same age. He was heading off to college the next week, just like I would be at the end of the month. I kept thinking about all of the ways we might be the same, but it was a few critical differences that gave us entirely different fates. I live in a different suburb than he did, about 30 minutes southwest on the highway. I’d driven by Ferguson countless times, but I’ve never spent time on his streets. And then there’s the color of our skin, which, in St. Louis at least, can make a really big difference in how your life shakes out. For Mike and I, it’s why I’m sitting here, about to finish University with a degree and he was shot multiple times in the street with his hands above his head.

That’s hard to swallow. And if it’s hard for me, I can’t imagine what it might feel like to walk in shoes that look a little more like his. I wanted to see this movie so I might catch a glimpse. I sat near the back of the auditorium, and I wanted to cry as images of the National Guard’s tanks rolled across the screen and tear gas canisters exploded on people who just wanted to be heard. I’d seen some of this on the news, but it was framed differently. Whose Streets is not the story they’re telling kids in West County. I’m not going to lie, I was uncomfortable. As a white person who has probably benefitted from the oppression of the individuals I was seeing on the screen in some way. These folks should have been my neighbors, and after years of living just miles apart, I felt closer to them in an auditorium in Boston than ever before. I don’t know if that speaks to the deep divisions in St. Louis or the excellence of the film, perhaps both, but it was jarring to me. I feel like we are so often seeking a “safe space,” and it is wonderful to find forums where we can express ourselves without facing attack, but the danger of entering an echo chamber that only reinforces our beliefs is very real. Sometimes there’s a truth we simply haven’t heard because it isn’t easy to hear. It was in that auditorium that I realized a “safe space” isn’t always going to be a comfortable one.

If the movie had left me feeling discouraged for my hometown, where protests and division continue and solutions seem so far away, the panel discussion gave me some hope. The last panel on race I attended at BU had only one African American on it and one woman. This one was already much improved by the presence of all black voices, three women, one of whom identified as queer.

The first question echoed one of my own feelings, “are we wrong for being here while others are protesting?” Tef Poe responded perfectly: the front line is where you dictate the front line. We can all contribute to change, wherever we are, but only if we are willing to commit.

Dr. Lightsey told us that our scholarship should be motivated by activism and our activism should be informed by scholarship.

Another panelist said we’re in a “Mad King” moment (if you’re familiar with Game of Thrones, you’ll know exactly what he’s talking about). The media is pouring everything into this Mad King. His antics are drowning out the real stories. But we have the power to decide who we pay attention to.

It is our duty to fight for our freedom.

It is our duty to win.

We must love and support each other.

We have nothing to lose but our chains.