My wife and I have struggled as my son has become a man. Luke is now 22, with the body of an elite athlete. At over 6’ 5” tall without a speck of body fat he can appear imposing. He moves gracefully, often in quick spurts as he responds to the chaotic stimulus his autism ceaselessly provides. Often times, when we are shopping at the grocery store or simply walking down the street, he will suddenly burst forward like a banshee, whooping at top volume. Bystanders are always startled when he does this, momentarily fearful for their safety. Once they comprehend he is supervised and benign enough, he becomes a simple curiosity most will try to avoid if possible.
It’s known in the intellectually disabled community as “falling off the cliff,” that dreaded day when your child ages out of the educational and support network provided since before kindergarten. Suddenly he is an adult, even though he has little more ability to navigate the world on his own than he did in 4th grade. For more than 16 years Luke patterned his existence on a school bus stopping in front of our house. Its absence now leaves more than a void for him, it upends his life, how he fits in the universe.
Such disorder has affected our beautiful boy. Once perpetually happy and hopeful for the future because he could rely on an interchange of scheduled activities, Luke now experiences uncertainty that tomorrow may only offer time he alone must fill. His mother has always been heroic, but now must step her game up another notch to find things he enjoys doing and fashion them into replacement routines… far easier said than done. Jigsaw puzzles, a treasured IPad, Wiggles videos, the piano and some favorite books will only go so far without outings he can look forward to. And while he can still count on a more select group of weekly events, the number continues to dwindle. Time on Luke’s hands is time for him to ponder his confusion, and sometimes now he goes dark, anxiety getting the best of his attention.
“I want to restart!” It’s an urgent proclamation Sue and I now cringe from. Lately, it is barked out more frequently and with more desperation. The idea is Luke’s alone, his solution to uncertainty he’s become prone to obsess about. Make time go backwards to when life offered more predictability. Start over, before “stupid Covid” and “now I’m just too old.” It crushes my soul to hear it, creates the nausea of dread. He knows it’s not possible, but his eyes still plead to somehow make it doable. I can only offer half measure concessions, perhaps a visit to see his old teachers or an upcoming event he can look forward to, anything to lighten his load.
The 22-minute video of Tyre Nichols’ murder can be broken up into several segments, each with its own central takeaway. The initial confrontation conveys near comical ineptness by Nichols’ assailants. Fully unable to effectively subdue their suspect after yanking him violently out of his car, they grow increasingly frustrated as their desire to punish Nichols escalates. While it remains a mystery what exactly Nichols did in the first place to attract their wrath, the answer is never provided on the video as the victim pleads with his tormentors to tell him what he did.
That Nichols decides to flee his captors is understandable given their chaotic malevolence. One of the suspects futilely chases his fleeing prey. He runs perhaps a block at most before giving up, the brief sprint enough to fully exhaust him. When he returns to his vehicle, his partner seems equally put out aerobically while suffering the affects of pepper spray he somehow turned on himself. Both appear woefully out of shape, doubled over with hands on knees and gasping for breath. One can’t find his glasses and neither inspires confidence as protectors of public safety. It’s almost as if they are ride-along amateurs who now are left to commiserate about the perp who got away and what they’d love to do to him given another shot.
The next scene is straight out of hell, something from a nightmare loop. Nichols’ tormentors descend on him like jackals on a wounded antelope. Each criminal has his own agenda that’s only focused on the pain he’s going to inflict. “Give me your hands” must be what they are taught to keep saying for the body cameras when brutalizing a suspect because they hiss it over and over in between kicks and punches as Nichols literally screams for his mother.
As the last act unfolds, a destroyed Tyre Nichols is finally cuffed and dragged over to slump against a patrol car. The killers are fist bumping and bouncing different parts of their alibi off each other. “He’s on something,” hoots one. “He high as a mother,” embellishes another. Indeed, the initial report the assailants submitted about the “arrest,” completely unsupported by the extensive recorded footage, contends Nichols violently resisted and tried to grab one of his murderer’s guns. One killer lights up a cigarette… like he just finished having sex. All are giddy with the rush another’s agony provides sadists, Nichols now ancillary to their male bonding ritual. This is not just police brutality; it’s the murder of a random victim unlucky enough to intersect with a gang of terminators licensed by the state to inflict harm.
The reaction from much of White America to yet another documented police atrocity has been depressingly familiar. Within Fox/AM country many see an opportunity to demonstrate racial tolerance, that skin color is not important to them when it comes to blindly supporting law enforcement. Why did Nichols run?! You cooperate, you live. That’s fair enough… especially in Memphis. Many want to harp on the “double standard” black protesters are bound to adopt because the cops were black this time. Cities only burn when white cops do the beating. But worst of all, the predominant feeling remains a detachment that comes from certainty the problem isn’t one that directly impacts me or mine.
Meanwhile, African-Americans continue to ask the same question they’ve been demanding an answer to all along. Why can’t a black man drive his car without getting killed by the police? It’s also likely most believe this cadre of black torturers would never treat a white person with such barbarity, certain a caucasian life would exact consequences only white cops escape. Maybe so, but the Memphis outrage should convince us all that nobody can take their safety from police brutality for granted. I don’t. How can I?
In my worst fears I see my boy in Tyre Nichols. These days, during his most anxious moments, when my reassurances are inadequate, he can act out. If there are strangers in the vicinity during such drama it qualifies as a public spectacle. Were neither Sue or I on the scene to claim responsibility for Luke, his erratic behavior could surely attract police attention. In such a state he would never answer their questions satisfactorily. And there is little doubt Luke would desperately resist any physical efforts to subdue him. Were he unfortunate enough to encounter a group remotely comparable to the Memphis Scorpion unit, there could very well be fist bumping and alibi swapping with my son slumped against a patrol car, after he cried out for his “mommy” or “dada.” The ruthless inhumanity of our civic indifference. BC
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As you know, I reside in murderous Memphis. Our collective outrage aside, one can’t help but look at MPD police culture with abject shame. This town, as much as I love the music legacy that drew me in like a magnet, fails on so many levels. The incomprehensible (to me) racial divide seems impossibly vast at times. I run into it headfirst and end up licking my wounds, wondering how I could have been so misunderstood. I’d like to think I could be seen as a friend to all and then kick myself for being so naive. We’re sitting on a powder keg here in the Bluff City and the fuse is getting dangerously short.
Sturgis, please keep us apprised of what things look like on the ground in Memphis.
This piece provides a poignant way of illustrating the importance of our need to prosecute excessive police violence and improve training on deescalation in the face of mental impairment, even as we acknowledge the real dangers police face, their right to protect themselves and others from truly dangerous criminals, and the perpetual need for well regulated policing.