Member-only story
On the afternoon of November 19th, 2006, Michael Smith was shot and killed by a police officer in the Woodlawn neighborhood of Chicago. I sat with his mother, Enobia, a few days later, in her living room. She told us how much Michael loved to cook and that the family always came together around his meals. She told us of the plans they were making for Thanksgiving with Michael and his fiancée Diontra.
The tearful recounting was interrupted when Michael’s four-year-old son, Michael Edward, came crying into the room. “Grammy, Grammy, the bad men are here!” he screamed, “Don’t let them take me.”
My experience with the police was different.
I’m white. I grew up on a farm in New Hampshire. My earliest memory of the police was Officer Friendly at my elementary school. I was told by my parents that if I was ever lost or in trouble, I should look for a police officer.
As a college student, I started to see injustice in the world around me and did my best to address it in a clumsy but well-meaning kind of way. The first protest I ever organized was over a hundred college students who spent the night out on the streets in downtown Chicago in the middle of February to advocate for affordable housing. I had failed to get the proper permits.
When the police arrived, I explained to the officer what we were trying to do and why we were doing it. Instead of shutting us down, he…
