My Name: A Fragmented Memoir*
Rosie Phetphouthay
“I am given and I am taken. I was there at your first breath, but you didn’t ask for me. But I will follow you till your death.” --The Conjuring 2
A name.
In 1995, my father began to write a historical fiction named The Red Rose based on his experiences in Laos during the Vietnam War. When I was born in the Spring, he named me Rosie, after his book.
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Everyone struggles as they grow up. We all want to know why we’re here. Not me. I knew my place, my purpose. My destiny had been handed to me through my name. I knew where I needed to direct my life, so I just enjoyed the journey so long as it moved forward. My biggest concern day to day had been how to dress. Utah’s weather was so bi-polar. Dressing warm enough to bear the fall mornings meant that I’d be sweating and lugging around unnecessary layers by the afternoon. I remember wishing that there would be consistency.
College was fast paced, and despite graduating with high honors, high school just didn’t seem like it could have ever prepped me. I’d spend all day at the university. I was easygoing and took my days in stride. My favorite thing to do was nap on the shuttle busses between the gaps of my classes as they cycled around the campus endlessly. The looping repetition put me at ease. I decided to drive home for lunch to save money. When I pulled into my driveway, there was a woman rocking a baby against her chest back and forth.
“I’m Rosie,” I gave her a short bow. “What is your name?” I knew she was Laotian, so I spoke to her in our language. I sized up the boy. He should be about one.
“Oh! Rosie, this is Laoson and his mom,” my dad must have heard me pull up since he came shuffling out to greet me. He stepped in front of her. “We are moving to Tennessee today. I was able to fit most of our stuff in the car, but I might have to make a trip back for other things.” I scanned my stepmom as I tried to make sense with what he said. She held the boy tighter and turned away.
“Wait, I never said I wanted to move.” I protested.
“I know. I didn’t pack any of your stuff. Don’t worry honey. I will send you money so you can still live here. I must go. It is my dream to help my country.” Within the hour, he was gone. I drove back up to the university.
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In 1893 Laos joined Vietnam, Cambodia and other South East Asian countries as part of French Indochina. Japan and France argued over who should occupy and colonize the region. Ho Chi Minh, a Vietnamese Nationalist who had been trained by the Soviet Union as an agent of Communist International, began a journey to take Vietnam’s future into his hands with the establishment of the League for the Independence of Vietnam in 1941. Later, Japan would declare Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia independent in 1945 as a means to end the colonial era. When Japan is defeated by the Allies that same year, France takes the region back under its control. In 1946, Ho Chi Minh led his communist group, dubbed the Viet Minh, into guerilla warfare against French colonialism.
I grew up in Fresno, California. My family was immersed in the Laotian community, so the big city felt small. The only grocery stores we shopped at were Hmong and Laotian markets. On Saturdays, my dad would take me to a community Lao class. We would learn how to read, write and rehearse traditional dances. My dad was strict when it came to my Laotian studies. Even after we got home, he would review the lessons with me.
I always hung out with Tiger and Sidney in Lao Class. They went to my school as well, and we were close because our teacher always sat us together. We would speak Lao even amongst other kids. Sidney and I would practice our dances at recess while Tiger would tease us whenever he whizzed by from playing tag with other boys.
Tiger left Sidney and me behind in the third grade to attend a school named Manchester G.A.T.E elementary. It was a school for smart kids, G.A.T.E stood for gifted and talented education. I wanted to follow him there because I had a crush on him. I requested to take the entrance test too, but my teacher said I needed to test out of ESL first. I was frustrated and felt like I was being treated unfairly. Why did I have to take this other test and not just the one he did? At the time, I was completely oblivious to the fact that I had been in ESL classes the whole time and had purposely been placed with Tiger and Sidney so they could help me learn how to speak English.
I pulled my father’s forearm closer to my face as he was in the middle of writing out another lesson plan for me. I squinted my eyes to practice what I had learned by trying to read the faded Laotian characters tattooed into his skin. They were all placed within the bolded silhouette of Laos.
“How come you always tell me I can’t ever get a tattoo, but you have such a big one right here?”
“I didn’t get this for fun or for how it looks. I needed to make sure that I could be identified if I died in the jungles.” He seemed annoyed.
“Hmmm. What does this word say?” The letters were too complex for me.
“That is Savannakhet City.” He didn’t say anymore as he could tell I had already lost interest. “One day you’ll be able to read the rest of the words on your own.”
In June of 1950, America tangles itself up in the conflicts of SouthEast Asia by trying to help the French prevent communism. The Domino Theory was propagated to justify intervention. The hope for a peaceful end to the colonial war with US reinforcements were strong, but many were skeptical. The Geneva Accords of 1954 declared an end to the French Indochina War but did not resolve conflicts or the rise of communism between the countries involved.
The Ho Chi Minh Trail was established in 1959 and expanded quickly as communist forces from North Vietnam used it as a route to supply their undercover troops within the jungles of Laos. The National Liberation Front is formed in South Vietnam and is named the Viet Cong by America as a threat related to North Vietnamese communist. John F. Kennedy publicly increased America’s involvement with the Vietnam War in 1961 by announcing aid to South Vietnam’s president, Ngo Dinh Diem.
It was past 6 o’clock, and I was the last kid left. My dad had been picking me up from school later and later. I was never sure when he would come, and sometimes I stopped waiting and would just walk. I waved to Mr. Young as I hopped into the passenger seat.
“Did you get another job? I can start walking home, so you don’t have to worry about coming to get me.” I honestly hated walking home. Crossing through busy streets was scary, but I also didn’t want to keep the teachers waiting on me. He clenched the steering wheel until his knuckles were white. I was never sure how to act around him during the times he’d become cold and indifferent without warning. He sped through a yellow light.
“Dad... Should I just start walking home?” I buckled my seat belt.
“I’m going to kill myself. This life is a living hell. There is no reason to live.” I flinched at his tone and imagined life without him.
“Why are you always trying to leave? What am I supposed to do? Are you really going to make me live without you?” I demanded his attention. His eyes widened and the car slowed down. My lips quivered. I probably shouldn’t have talked back to him. I just needed to know what would come after. What should I expect? He pulled into the driveway, and the air was so dry I thought I would choke. He released a heavy sigh. I winced with relief.
“You’re right. Dad is sorry. If I can’t live for anything, I can at least live for you now. Make sure you stay focused on school. I can live for you, so you can do better than me.” He never talked about suicide again.
When I was accepted into Manchester G.A.T.E in the fifth grade, Tiger had moved away. I heard his dad was in jail, and he left the state with his mom overnight. Getting into Manchester had no longer been about him, though. I had found the resolve to excel in academics not for a boy, but because of the unspoken promise to my father. It was a charter school far from my house. I started going home with my friends and would even eat dinner with their families some nights.
When my father didn’t have shifts at his regular jobs, he and my mom were working on a farm to make extra money. My mom didn’t speak any English, so farm work with other Laotians was all she could do. My mom would always get angry at me when I spoke to her in English. I didn’t understand we had a language barrier, and we only grew apart. I took care of my older brother, Mars, and we were home alone often. Something happened to his heart when he was a baby, and an operation left him brain-damaged. My sister got a boyfriend when she started middle school and never paid any attention to us.
On nights I was afraid of all the monsters underneath my bed or in the closet, I was not allowed to call my parents for comfort. My mom always told me it was bad luck to call them when they were out looking for money. One evening, I got in a fight with Mars and he gave me a black eye. I called my mom. When my parents got home, I felt bad because she told me they lost all their money. In 2008, we abruptly moved from Fresno to Salt Lake City, Utah. I found out that my mom gambled away more money than we could pay, and we were running from debt collectors.
In 1965 President Johnson deploys Operation Rolling Thunder to strategically cut off the Viet Cong’s ability to supply its troops by bombing Ho Chi Minh trail. Laos would go on to be known as the most bombed country per capita. In 1968 President Johnson announced he would not run for re-election as he is criticized for the US’s involvement in the Vietnam War.
Viengthong’s village was being overtaken by the Pathet Lao as the US had begun decreasing its presence in the Second French Indochina War. The Pathet Lao were brainwashed by North Vietnam’s communism and enforced their rule of war in regions they occupied. Viengthong was the oldest in a family of 7 but was only 13 years old in 1968. He loved his country too much to become a mindless child soldier for the insurgents. The chance for a new life came abruptly.
“Son, wake up! You must go with your uncle. He will take you to Savannakhet City with the others so you can go to school and escape the communist!” His father was already packing his clothes while his mother was sobbing at the doorway. There was no time for Viengthong to think, his uncle was pulling him out of bed. He could not console his mother.
“I must leave for a big dream that I have for our country. We need Laotian mining experts and patriotic leaders in order to protect our country and make it prosperous. I promise I’ll be back with success.” Those were his last words to her, and he fled without any time to contemplate the life he was leaving as he ran for his future.
“I did not have a chance to go school in the village I grew up in. When I moved to the city, I still walked four miles to and from school every day.” He tried to offer me comfort. My father was driving me to West Lake Jr. High where I would start seventh grade with no friends in Utah. He noticed I was on the verge of tears.
“You told me to study hard and I made it into the smartest school. Now you’ve moved us here.” I was entitled and bitter.
My sister couldn’t get over moving away from her boyfriend and started acting out. Doctors said she had depression, but I just thought she was awful. My parents grew apart because my dad resented my mother for her gambling addiction. She was unhappy about being moved away from her sister, our only relative in the States. My dad worked two full time jobs to support us and was barely home. My mom was always angry, so I hung out at school until late. The summer before I started high school, my father had an affair and my mom left back to Fresno with Mars. I stayed with my father because schools in Utah were better.
“I am not abandoning you. You remember that you are choosing to stay behind, to part from me.” That was my mother’s goodbye. We were so estranged; I didn’t feel abandoned.
My father began working three jobs and would spend the little free time he had in Logan with the other woman. He told me that he brought her over once, and my sister had called her a whore and blamed her for breaking up our family. Michelle’s existence tormented me, so I was sure the woman was traumatized. I supported the affair, though, and was glad he was happy. I admired how much he worked for us. I made sure I stayed focused on school to give us a better life one day.
In high school, I juggled many extracurricular activities and sports teams. The uniforms and competitions were expensive, so I worked to pay for them. I bought food for the house and gradually started helping my dad with the bills. Michelle eventually moved out with a boy, so it was just my dad and me. I was always at school, and if he was home, he was already asleep when I returned. I graduated high school as a candidate for a full ride Naval Scholarship at the University of Utah in their Chemical Engineering program. I had worked tirelessly on my academics, my chances seemed good.
“Is this a gunshot wound?” My dad had a scar that bulged from his shoulder blade.
“No, I was hit by a blast from the enemy’s rocket that landed not far from me when I was a freedom fighter. I was fighting against the Laotian communist troops in 1979.”
“Why was Laos involved in the Vietnam War?” I had been reading parts of his book.
“Because the Laotian Royal government couldn’t keep fighting the communist. The US withdrew troops in 1972 because of the Paris Accords. The Pathet Lao and Laotian Royal government set up a peace agreement as well. It was called the 1973-Vientiane Peace Agreement for National Reconciliation. Everything was getting better and looked good. Then the Khmer Rouge seized power over Panom Pen in Cambodia and North Vietnam violated the Paris agreement and seized power over South Vietnam. The Pathet Lao violated the Vientiane agreement. All three countries fell to communism. Innocent people were killed if they were suspected of being against the new government by action or thought. I continued to go to school until I was arrested as one of many accused.” He was describing a whole other kind of life from what I knew. It pained me to realize he had already lived through so much.
“Why did the Pathet Lao oppose the Royal Lao government?”
“They believed they would take better care of the country and Laotian people under socialism if there was no king. They propagated that the Laotian Royal government brought US aggression to Laos. They called Americans imperialists and hateful feelings against the United States and support for the Pathet Lao grew when Laos was bombed by American B-52 bombers. On the other hand, the Pathet Lao brought in the North Vietnamese communist troops supported by Russia and China. Looking back to those perilous and eventful years, I realize that the Laotian Royal government and the Pathet Lao were idiots. The truth is Laos was a scapegoat of the Cold War and that of the Vietnam War. We were stupidly killing each other for the interests of North Vietnam, China, Russia and the United States as well. It was not our war; we were just an important strategy.” I couldn’t understand the complexities of the war, but I mourned for our country.
On March 3rd, 1976 Viengthong and fellow classmates of Lycee Savannakhet High School are arrested and detained into re-education camps. They are left to starve in jail cells with shackles around their ankles and tortured into forced labor. On January 13th,1977, Viengthong woke up in his jail cell for the last time. His body was covered in maggots and severely emaciated.
The only freedom he and the other prisoners had were when they needed to use the bathroom. The Pathet Lao soldiers allowed the prisoners to go together in pairs without their supervision. Their morale kept them imprisoned because anyone who returned alone was killed. Akoy was one of Viengthong’s classmates from high school. They would often make bathroom trips together.
“How do you have so much to relieve when we don’t have anything to eat? If you take too long, we will get beaten.” Akoy was upset upon his delayed return.
“I’m sorry, I just don’t feel very good. I don’t think that I am done. Start going back, I’ll run and catch back up to you.” Akoy was frustrated, but was afraid of the consequences from taking too long.
“Okay, but you better hurry up. I’ll wait near the entrance to the camp for you to catch up.” Viengthong took one last look at his friend.
“Thank you.”
He had been pretending to have a stomachache, so he had time to find an escape route. Viengthong was sacrificing the life of his friend for his own. Everyone was going to die there anyway. He ran with no break; the communists would capture him if he wavered. He had no time to think about others as he was running for his life. He continued to weave through the jungle, ducking at any sudden noise or movement. His body was weak and could not last long. He blacked out.
“Here kid, drink this.” Water streamed into his mouth. He opened his eyes, horrified. “Relax. Relax. You’re okay. I ain’t no traitor. I’m a freedom fighter. Did you just escape from the camp up north?” The old man whistled. “God is looking out for you, kid.”
Viengthong knew that he could trust this man, because if he could not, his throat would have been slit already. He took him into a group of men that had been working for the Laotian Royal government before the Pathet Lao took over. Viengthong would call his savior Uncle. He joined the freedom fighters with their efforts against the communist until 1981. When he accepted that they were fighting to no end, he crossed the Mekong river to a Thai refugee camp that brought him to the United States of America.
“Rosie, let’s move to Tennessee. I am going to be supporting the Laotian Royal government by writing articles about what really happened in 1975.” I stared at him blankly, trying to accept his offhand proposal.
“When are you trying to move?” I asked skeptically.
“Next week. The organization that I am with will host us. I have everything all set up and we don’t have to pay for anything. You wouldn’t have to work either.” He was cheerful. I knew he stayed involved in Laotian politics. He was writing for news being reported back in Laos. I barely understood what it was all about, so I didn’t pay a lot of attention.
“If I get this scholarship, our lives will change... Shouldn’t I just finish school here first?” I quickly looked up what it was like to live in Tennessee. It was the second poorest state in the US. It had high crime rates, and even worse than that, it ranked lower in education than Utah. “I don’t want to go.” I explained that out of state tuition was just not considerable.
“Alright. I understand you want to stay.” My dad was a dreamer. I just needed to anchor him back down.
I realized we misunderstood each other. He thought that I wanted to stay, even without him. I thought he wouldn’t go, especially without me. I was shocked, yet his departure was routine. When I got home from school, I called out to him to test reality. Did he really leave? I looked out the window for his car. I paced to the kitchen, and there was no fresh sticky rice in the bamboo basket for the next morning. I dashed open his closet, and there were no clothes. He never came back for his other things. He didn’t send money for the electric bill, so I paid it. He didn’t send money for the gas bill, the internet bill. I paid it. He didn’t send money for rent, I paid it.
My neighbors must have noticed I was living on my own. I had left to get a payday loan to pay rent for the month. I drove into my driveway as I always had, but I sat in my car for hours, steadying myself before confronting the loneliness that waited. When I found the strength, I entered to find my clothes littering the floor. My mind raced for explanations. Did my dad come home? Why would he do this? The laptop I used student loans to buy was gone. I packed all my belongings into my car and left.
I picked up more hours at the coffee shop, and gradually my studies became too much for me to handle. Professors noticed my absences, and counselors reached out. I asked for an appeal that was not granted. I got a polite email notifying me I was no longer a candidate for the Naval scholarship. My friends knew I was having a tough time because I couch surfed between them. They took me to a party to get my mind off things. I didn’t drink. I didn’t do those things. I didn’t want to be like my sister, but I had nothing else to lose. Except I did. The party got busted and I was given an underage drinking ticket. I didn’t have money to pay for it. I didn’t have money to live.
The next morning, I returned home for the first time since the robbery. With the last of the money I had, I bought any effective-looking over the counter medication and an Exacto knife. I drove back to face the vacancy. It was cold as I entered. I looked around to take in my last moments. We didn’t have money for furniture and left the walls bare. We had never had time for pictures together. I realized I never had a home.
I wrote a note and remedied my sorrow with NyQuil. I searched for meaning. He named me Rosie. Wasn’t I supposed to build us a better life to make up for all his suffering? Did my resolve have no worth? He gave me the responsibility for his hopes and our dreams. I could keep dreaming if I closed my eyes.
I was waiting in the kitchen to give my dad an invitation to my dance concert. Maybe he could make it this time since it would be the last one. I wasn’t sure if he was still sleeping, so I looked for a magnet to put it on the fridge. There was an ultrasound pinned with a magnet.
“Is Michelle having a baby?” I yelled to him downstairs. Judging from the time stamp, she was at least 6 months into her pregnancy. I guess it was only a matter of time that this would happen. His feet were giddy running up the stairs.
“That is actually your younger brother. His name will be Laoson. He is my son of Laos!” His eyes were bright as he brought the photo closer so I could see the anatomy. I quirked my brows. I wondered how his name would be received among other kids while he grew up. Would they bully him because it was different? Maybe they would think it was cool; a name with a legacy.
I found an extension cord. I jumped, and it fell with me. I jumped two more times. I took breaks with reflection. My neck began to bruise, and I just wanted to finish before I felt worse. I looked for better support but could not find it. I went down the road instead of crossing the street. I chugged more NyQuil and swallowed what I could. I started a bath, but the cold was so uninviting. Time started to fade away from me.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
My eyes revived from the sudden sound.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
I blundered down and threw the door open to a familiar looking man.
“Hi, the land-lord sent me to fix the water heater,” He said.
“Oh hi. I wasn’t told anyone was coming over.” I was disoriented.
“You’re Sy’s kid, right? The landlord mentioned a few things to me, and I actually used to work with your dad. I had some time today, so I just came to help you out.” He stepped in. I led him downstairs and quickly kicked the extension cord into a corner. “So, he just left, huh? How long ago?” His eyes wandered around my father’s room. He already knew where the water heater was. “What are you doing here? You didn’t go with him? Why not?” he bombed me with questions.
“Um… I had school. I didn’t want to give up my chance for a good scholarship.”
“Oh, did you get it?”
“No.” My voice broke and I swallowed my tears. He finished the service in silence.
“Well, this was actually a simple fix. There should be hot water again. Just light the bottom here if it goes out. I’m sure you can figure it out,” His eyes were invasive as he turned around, “but you should ask for help if you need it.” I turned my head down tugging at my collar and I fidgeted with my sleeves.
“How much is everything?” I pretended I could pay him.
“I can’t take anything from you. I didn’t really come to do a job. I feel too bad for you. Sy is a good man, but I’m not sure how he’s thinking.” His concern was heartbreaking.
“He had his reasons. Thank you so much, Uncle.” I choked.
We all have our stories. Take each chapter as a lesson and don’t be afraid to rewrite your pages. We must choose our words kindly and with care as we fill each line and blend into one book. Every story is worth finishing.
Haagen-Dazs or Bluebell*
Alex Depedro
Ice Cream
Haagen-Dazs or Blue Bell? Going out or staying in? Thursday night in Dallas, TX, do you feel like it’s already the weekend or is it a night to relax before the weekend? Maybe tonight is the night he prepares for his sermon for the Sunday service or sing hymns to stay current for the choir. Perhaps he wanted to literally do nothing but sit around, eat ice cream while watching mindless television or something more intellectual like Jeopardy. What could possibly go wrong on this soothing, quiet, ice cream night? The thoughts roaming inside of Botham Jean’s head are things that will forever be unknown. “LET ME SEE YOUR HANDS.” Pain is likely the next sensation he likely feels surging through his body. He doesn’t know why. He will never know what exactly just happened. His mind falls backwards, perhaps like the scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo.
8 years old asking to be baptized. Nine years old asking to be baptized. 10 years old, awarded baptism. Fast forward to 19 years old. Leaving his small Caribbean island where he helped shape the choir, and became a spiritual figure for many, to head to the school of his dreams, Harding University in Arkansas. 24 years old, graduate from college, accept an accounting job in Dallas, TX. 26 years old, end of the line. Perhaps he thought of these things in his final hours? Was this God’s “plan” for you? So young, so talented, so passionate, so selfless, and so black. “But honestly, who knows what his impact could truly have been had his life not been taken from him.” He’s got red on him, a lot of red. September 6, 2018 was Botham’s last night for ice cream.
Botham Jean’s front door after the incident
Silhouette
LET ME SEE YOUR HANDS.
Perhaps, his mind raced with a series of questions.
What have I done? What should I do next? Is he alive? Did I kill him? Oh shit. What could she have been thinking as smoke spilled from the pistol? Did she feel remorse after? Or worried about her own fate following the situation? We may never know the details, but one thing we do know, Botham’s ice cream will never be finished.
“I’m exhausted, and I’m going home.” Amber Guyger’s Thursday night had only just begun. Red welcome mat, that’s weird. Why’s door unlocked? Perhaps these went through her mind before she entered the wrong apartment and took the life of a silhouette. Do we take into consideration her obscene text messages regarding MLK? What does it say about the Dallas police department that she’s the first officer to be convicted of murder since 1970? Does this mean they’re incredibly honest or so corrupt everything’s been swept under the rug for almost 50 years? Amber Guyger was fired 3 weeks later. “I thought it was in my apartment”. IT? This is how you describe the black man you just killed, IT? He was someone to a lot of people, he was special, he was alive. As the testimony rages on, and the court scene continues, one thing is odd. “It’s not about hate, it’s about being scared.”
Who do you think was more scared, Amber? You? Maybe your weapon? Possibly the sext message you sent prior to standing on his red door-mat? Maybe the tenant of the apartment you entered illegally, yelled at, took aim, and then fired upon. He’s got red on him. A lot of red.
Human Exports
It’s a slap in the face. Shake the magic 8 ball and see what number floats up. 10 years. That’s it. That’s all she gets. Outraged supporters were not enthusiastic regarding the justice system working its falsely hopeful hand. “Black lives matter.” As the courtroom scene adjourned, this is what was heard from the halls. A young man is dead, a young woman got off easy, and a country is divided between acts of kindness and knowing when to show the world your anger. “The case did not fit into the familiar narratives of police killings in which officers fired their weapons. But it was widely viewed as a test for whether there was anywhere in America where black men could be safe, if not in their own homes.” Maybe we’ve seen this idea in action before?
Christian or Canadian?
Strength. For all I know, that’s what it took for me to turn my head to you as I spoke in that chair. All eyes on me. Fix your glasses. Be strong. “I’m not gonna say I hope rot and die, just like my brother did, but I, I, I personally want the best for you.” Do what’s right. Be the example. Show the Jeans, and the world, who you are. “I don’t know if this is possible, but can I give her a hug, please?”
How easy is it to forgive someone? Depends on the level of treason, I suppose, and how much you knew, or didn’t, know the person at hand. For the family of the slain Botham Jean, forgiveness is in their blood. How could that be you may ask? “Black people forgive because we need to survive.” Some may say it’s expected of African American individuals from their heavily religious background. Perhaps 400 years of oppression, of being pushed back, put down, what other choice did you have other than turn to a God that would accept you for all the beauty you encompass. Born into a world that wouldn’t have you. Into a hell you didn’t ask for. How is it expected of you? But for the Jean’s, all starting with the brother, Brandt Jean, 18, it’s easy. His open heart, open mindedness, and ability to see past any inequalities between them. As the teens display of forgiveness spread throughout the world, not everyone was happy. There was a clear split between the individuals who praised him and the individuals that felt he was wrong. Put yourself in his seat for a second. If your family member was slain in their own home, by “fear,” would you be so mentally stable as to forgive the person who committed the act? During the grueling trial, Brandt Jean let nothing go to his head. His humanity stayed intact. If Botham killed Amber, would her family, or America, be so willing to forgive? Or would it look like a scene from “Strange Fruit,” that ended with a legal lynching and photos to commemorate it.
“Historically speaking, when faced with the choice between racism and equality, the American church has tended to practice complicit Christianity rather than a courageous Christianity.”
Perhaps Brandt sat there, after the verdict was given out, unable to think of what to do. This chair is uncomfortable. Everyone’s staring at me. It’s hot in this room. It’s not up to me. It’s been done. Botham, what should I do? Should I be angry, happy, sad, thankful? TELL ME WHAT TO DO. Random outcries. The sound of loved ones holding each other. If saline running down their cheeks had a sound, it would have been a tidal wave.
The Hug from Brandt Jean to Amber Guyger after her conviction
Historically Speaking
Would these thoughts be thoughts you think, or just a historian and pastor?
God fearing? Are white people actually God fearing, or do they take what they want from the bible and discard the rest? This shouldn’t still be happening. 400 years and they still get away with murder. Why would you hug her knowing what she’s done and gotten away with? We should be angry. I AM ANGRY.
Do you think the hero of the story always takes the high road? If so, why’s that? Is it because that’s what’s expected of them? Born in blood, shackled from generation to generation, humiliated from inception, and then finally given a chance. Despite always being told to love they neighbor, forgive those who have wronged you, and to accept everyone for who they are, the past is the past and it’s a bloodbath. Botham Jean came from the Caribbean Island of St. Lucia and all he knew was forgiveness. Perhaps laughing, singing, and encompassing his faith was life. How did you think your Thursday night was going to go? If it were your brother dead in his home, would you be angry? Would you fight this fight with me? The different narratives prove to be different timelines. One shines on the privileged, the other shames people of color all while being a part of the same organization that speaks to the same entity regarding guidance and redemption.
“On one level, because it’s always been there. In the U.S. context, religion has always been racialized. The reason white supremacy has had such staying power throughout the years is because it benefits, in certain ways, people who are considered white”.
Jemar Tisby, a historian and a pastor, is one of the individuals against Brandt Jean’s hug of forgiveness. Christianity continues to prove forgiveness is misused and misplaced at times. Tisby wants the fierce urgency of now, an excerpt from MLK’s “I have a dream”, to be welcomed in all shapes in sizes. A Christian who has a powerful voice and doesn’t have to concede to another without fully seeing the situation for what it is 1619, slavery in America. Murder and death. 1865, Jim Crow laws. Murder and death. 1964, Civil Rights Acts. Murder and death. 2009, America elects its first black president. Murder and death. The importance of anger can’t be undersold. Fight back. Is 400 years enough time to remember? We never had a chance.
Jemar Tisby’s Book.
Human Targets
200 demonstrators rallied the night of the sentence. Hopefully it wasn’t enough for them. It shouldn’t have been enough for anyone. “We need to continue to seek reform of the police department. We are not deterred.” Cheering and shouting erupted during this speech about reform and taking a stand against inequality. Forgiveness is not an option for some. Maybe it’s seen as a crutch that’s still being used because it has to be. A way of life that some think is behind us, that’s forgotten, that the thought that black people aren’t free is ludicrous. It isn’t as insane as some think.
“But don’t confuse his forgiveness with absolving this nation for its gross, bitter discrimination against black people in a myriad of its systems and policies.” The pure anger that is felt from these words is palpable. It’s empowering yet sobering. 400 years later and we’re still fighting this battle. A battle that should have been so dead in the dirt no one should have known about it.
Botham Jean. Cynthia Heard. Atatiana Jefferson. Joshua Brown. Susie Jackson. Tywanza Sanders. We’re still here, why can’t they be?
Works Cited:
Martinez, Mervosh, Eligon. “Former Dallas Police Officer Is Guilty of Murder for Killing He Neighbor.” The New York Times. 1 Oct. 2019, https://www.nytimes.com/2019/10/01/us/amber-guyger-trial-verdict-botham-jean.html?searchResultPosition=9
Owens, Marjorie. “Who is Botham Jean? Dallas man shot by police officer was more than his death.” WFAA. 21 Sept. 2019, https://www.wfaa.com/article/news/special-reports/botham-jean/who-is-botham-jean-dallas-man-shot-by-police-officer/287-85bb2e3e-8bf8-4932-931a-6ef63a483f4f
Ding Chan, Erin. “Racialized Religion.” COV. 18 July. 2019, https://covenantcompanion.com/2019/07/18/racialized-religion-a-conversation-with-jemar-tisby/
Allyn, Bobby. “Ex-Dallas Officer Who Killed Man In His Own Apartment Is Founds Guilty Of Murder.” NPR. 1 Oct. 2019, https://www.npr.org/2019/10/01/765788338/ex-dallas-officer-who-killed-neighbor-in-upstairs-apartment-found-guilty-of-murd
Nevins, Shammas, Knowles, Thebault. “Amber Guyger’s 10-year murder sentence sparks both protests and an act of forgiveness.” The Washington Post. 2 Oct. 2019, https://www.washingtonpost.com/nation/2019/10/02/botham-jeans-family-friends-testify-during-amber-guyger-sentencing/
Henneberger, Melinda. “Brandt Jean forgiving, hugging Amber Guyger is one thing- the judge’s hug is another.” USA Today. 5 Oct. 2019, https://www.usatoday.com/story/opinion/2019/10/05/amber-guyger-brandt-jean-hug-forgiveness-column/3867057002/
Gay, Roxane. “Why I Can’t Forgive Dylan Roof.” The New York Times. 23 June. 2015
https://www.nytimes.com/2015/06/24/opinion/why-i-cant-forgive-dylann-roof.html