#JusticeForElijahMcClain
The details of Elijah McClain’s untimely death haunt me. His story is one that guts me. All of the stories of Black bodies presumed threats and, as a result, destroyed at the hands of police are awful, but McClain’s hits different, personally.
This is what I worry about often when I look at the graduation photo of my 21-year-old cousin — I worry that the sweet, super-smart boy that he is will be deemed dangerous by some random stranger who then decides to call 911 and in turn put him in danger. I’m worried that the police, trained as it seems to see Black men/boys as threats when in reality they’re playing the violin for kittens in their spare time, will see my handsome, genius cousin as someone who needs to be contained.
McClain’s pleas brought me to tears. He’s pleading to be seen as he is. He’s just trying to get home. Why can’t they see the humanity in us enough to know that McClain was a sweet kid with anemia and not a menace to society? Moreover, I also struggle with why a potential Black menace to society needs to be treated with such force anyway. I’ve seen, as we all have, White men treated with more care.
Lastly, what really keeps me up at night is knowing that the solution to this problem is likely not in legislation or reform, but in needing a group of people, White men with guns and ketamine and a license to kill without true retribution, to see the humanity in Black people enough to not pounce at every call and to presume innocence — the way I would assume they presume innocence when they see young White boys.
