Never Forget the NFL Protests
The narrative of, “Never forget where you’ve come from” is dear to African American community. All my life in Fort Myers and southwest Florida we all looked to those who “made it” to the league to never forget us. That’s why we all claimed to be related to Deion Sanders, Jevon Kearse, Edgerrin James, and so many others from South Florida because they were us. When NFL players came back to the hood, they brought gifts, built homes, gave turkeys and it was a major celebration to know that they made it out but they had not forgotten about us.
As I got older, and a lot more cynical, I realized that as millionaires, they needed to make sizable contributions to non-profits for tax breaks. It was an economic win-win situation. The IRS was satisfied and the player was able to contribute to his community. But as the protest started by Kaepernick has evolved, I have much more respect for these players and their stance to remember those that cannot speak for themselves. By taking a knee during the national anthem, they are putting their livelihood on the line. The protest is moving because it can be easy to believe that once they made it out of the hood, they don’t care about the ills that plague their friends and family that are confined to the streets.
The Cost of Memory
This silent protest is a clarion call to all those African American black men, woman, and children that they have not forgotten about us. And in fact, they are willing to sacrifice their comfort to bring attention to us. Even further, we want all Americans watching these games to know that there are severe issues in our nation. As I recall, before Dr. King was a prolific civil rights leader, he was a part of the bourgeoisie black middle-class in America. He was young, well educated and free to worry about his own concerns and career aspirations. But in light of the plight of the people, he chose to abandon his comforts and die nearly penniless for the sake of others.
Never Forget
I honor these men and their sacrifices because it feels as though my life is disposable in America. As I scroll my Facebook newsfeed of friends, I am starting to believe that no one would care if I was left slumped over in the street, bathed in a pool of my blood, murdered by the hands of a police officer, yet was unarmed or was in police custody. It is safe to assume that some of those who call me friend would think that I was the author of my demise in some way, shape or form. Freddie Gray’s neck was severed while in police custody, and no one will be held accountable for his death. Michael Brown, similar in stature to myself, lay bare for the world to see his bullet-ridden body. No one will ever stand trial for his death. Tamir Rice, a young boy, playing in the park, his life was tragically cut off, and there will be no consequences for his murder. They are disposable in the eyes of the law. I am forced to ask myself, ‘Am I disposable?
I Am Not Forgotten
But I am not disposable. I am reminded of the first recorded murder in the writ of scripture. It is the story of brother killing brother in a jealous fit. While the murder was hidden, the crime could not be covered up because of the boisterous spilled blood. “And the Lord said, “What have you done? The voice of your brother’s blood is crying out to me from the ground, which has opened its mouth to receive your brothers blood from your hand.” Genesis 4:10. In graphic terms, the Bible makes clear that the spilled blood was priceless and the cries of that shed blood he hears and takes notice. My blood is not disposable in the eyes of God. And although, my body may be disposable under the letter of the law. At the very least I am remembered by God and acknowledged by players as they kneel on the sidelines of football fields.
