On the Execution of STWilliams
I even surprised myself at my reaction to Stanley Tookie William’s execution: do it.
For most of my politically-conscious years, I have opposed capital punishment. It is unjustly applied, does not deter crime, and gives the state too much authority to regulate life or death. No one should play God.
Even in conversations with supporters positing hypothetical murder of my family members, I held firm to my opposition. I would want them to die, I argued, but the state should not have the right to determine when someone plays God.
And then Stanley Williams, co-founder of the Crips. I can’t keep my fingers from typing the words “kill ‘em.” In less than two hours, the wardens at San Quentin prison will. Arguments on Larry King will cease, Anderson Cooper will stop reporting, candle-light vigilants will blow softly and go home. And I still wonder…
At stop lights, in line at Benetton, at Busboys and Poets, why do I want Williams to die? The Crips. For what his mind was capable of conceiving, and his hands and spirit willing to realize: a gang to terrorize folks. Of sorts, a death squad.
I am not from Los Angeles and have not known Crips in a way to make me change my wardrobe, avoid specific McDonald’s, or avert my eyes. I haven’t ever confronted a gang on a street corner, or a school hallway, and don’t think I will at the age I am. I’ve never yanked out my earrings, dropped my bookbag, or commanded someone to hold me back! The sentence itself rings hollow from inexperience. I’ve never been there.
The battle I fight is internal. I carry it around with me in my head, and it begins in my dreams. For years I’ve had more than occasional nightmares of being caught in the crossfire or similar situation where gun barrels and hyper-masculine men figure prominently and escape is only through waking up.
Full Afro, Mr. Universe physique, prison denims, contented misery in his glare: this image of Stan Williams I see on the news, on the web. It scares me. The image propels hate, vengeance, power, madness, and relentless pursuit of victims. They are the emotions I confront in my dreams, and linger in my head during the day.
His presence is as recent as it is powerful. I didn’t know who he was before last week, before I glanced at a link on CNN.com. Of his existence I was not concerned in the least. The association with the Crips pushed his name from fleeting headline read in 3 seconds, to serious consideration. Now, I can blame him for some of the rage I feel about the pervasive violence in The City. The fact that house after house of people in LA, NYC, Miami, and Chicago experience a shivering danger in their own neighborhoods can be attributed to him. Stanley Tookie Williams. Pinochet. Mbutu. Saddam Hussein.
This feeling leads me to unsettling thoughts, to questions I don’t want to consider, and certainly don’t want to type. Is one life as valuable as many lives? Does embedding fear and violence in our collective psyche merit death, while a single murder does not? A graduated death scale: a few people, life in prison; but many people and psychological torture, death.
And then the question of redemption. As is well known, Williams experienced a cleansing of mind and spirit, began writing children’s books warning against gang violence, and negotiated a truce. Should I feel compassionate towards him? Feel a degree of sensitivity? I do not. The destructive energy he introduced still seeps through the air, through conversation, through body language. His books attempt at reconciliation, an alternative. I appreciate that.
But am not entirely moved by it. If I felt more safe than I do, if five people weren’t shot in one night in DC over the weekend, if children weren’t shot in schools, I would have more compassion for him than I do. I would have grief for him. But my grief is with my dead student, found in an alley. For the curly-headed teenager found shot in his car. The neighborhood grandmother shot in her armchair while watching television.
God teaches us to be forgiving. I am not unhappy he is now dead. It gives me comfort that his evil is no longer with us. What does that make me? I leave room for the potential to feel differently tomorrow.
For most of my politically-conscious years, I have opposed capital punishment. It is unjustly applied, does not deter crime, and gives the state too much authority to regulate life or death. No one should play God.
Even in conversations with supporters positing hypothetical murder of my family members, I held firm to my opposition. I would want them to die, I argued, but the state should not have the right to determine when someone plays God.
And then Stanley Williams, co-founder of the Crips. I can’t keep my fingers from typing the words “kill ‘em.” In less than two hours, the wardens at San Quentin prison will. Arguments on Larry King will cease, Anderson Cooper will stop reporting, candle-light vigilants will blow softly and go home. And I still wonder…
At stop lights, in line at Benetton, at Busboys and Poets, why do I want Williams to die? The Crips. For what his mind was capable of conceiving, and his hands and spirit willing to realize: a gang to terrorize folks. Of sorts, a death squad.
I am not from Los Angeles and have not known Crips in a way to make me change my wardrobe, avoid specific McDonald’s, or avert my eyes. I haven’t ever confronted a gang on a street corner, or a school hallway, and don’t think I will at the age I am. I’ve never yanked out my earrings, dropped my bookbag, or commanded someone to hold me back! The sentence itself rings hollow from inexperience. I’ve never been there.
The battle I fight is internal. I carry it around with me in my head, and it begins in my dreams. For years I’ve had more than occasional nightmares of being caught in the crossfire or similar situation where gun barrels and hyper-masculine men figure prominently and escape is only through waking up.
Full Afro, Mr. Universe physique, prison denims, contented misery in his glare: this image of Stan Williams I see on the news, on the web. It scares me. The image propels hate, vengeance, power, madness, and relentless pursuit of victims. They are the emotions I confront in my dreams, and linger in my head during the day.
His presence is as recent as it is powerful. I didn’t know who he was before last week, before I glanced at a link on CNN.com. Of his existence I was not concerned in the least. The association with the Crips pushed his name from fleeting headline read in 3 seconds, to serious consideration. Now, I can blame him for some of the rage I feel about the pervasive violence in The City. The fact that house after house of people in LA, NYC, Miami, and Chicago experience a shivering danger in their own neighborhoods can be attributed to him. Stanley Tookie Williams. Pinochet. Mbutu. Saddam Hussein.
This feeling leads me to unsettling thoughts, to questions I don’t want to consider, and certainly don’t want to type. Is one life as valuable as many lives? Does embedding fear and violence in our collective psyche merit death, while a single murder does not? A graduated death scale: a few people, life in prison; but many people and psychological torture, death.
And then the question of redemption. As is well known, Williams experienced a cleansing of mind and spirit, began writing children’s books warning against gang violence, and negotiated a truce. Should I feel compassionate towards him? Feel a degree of sensitivity? I do not. The destructive energy he introduced still seeps through the air, through conversation, through body language. His books attempt at reconciliation, an alternative. I appreciate that.
But am not entirely moved by it. If I felt more safe than I do, if five people weren’t shot in one night in DC over the weekend, if children weren’t shot in schools, I would have more compassion for him than I do. I would have grief for him. But my grief is with my dead student, found in an alley. For the curly-headed teenager found shot in his car. The neighborhood grandmother shot in her armchair while watching television.
God teaches us to be forgiving. I am not unhappy he is now dead. It gives me comfort that his evil is no longer with us. What does that make me? I leave room for the potential to feel differently tomorrow.
posted by Rhonda Henderson at 12:35 PM
4 Comments:
LaRhonda,
You continue to disappoint me with your conservative views of the world. I thought you reading Malcolm X would help you, but I guess not. See you this weekend for more conversation on this topic.
Oh, and please don't cover the immigration topic on this site if you're are going to be just as blinded on that topic...wink!
You should include George Bush and his boy Rummy in your list of thugs.
I'll try to remain somewhat anonymous -- frequent reader of your blog and admirer of your writing style - forgot to leave my initials on the comment above.
WARIII
Free Bobby Brown! Free Bobby Brown!
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