Yesterday I got a call from my sister Cheeraz Gormon in St. Louis who was standing with poet Elizabeth Vega. They wanted me to know that a few women had created, on lawns, in the streets, healing stations, a place where the youth could come and scream and cry and be held and heard in love. Mighty work. — Dream Hampton
this made me cry.
This week has affected me so deeply. Footage of refugees begging to be taken in helicopters of medical supplies, innocence lost in countless ways (I’m so sorry we failed you, Mike Brown), feeling hopeless as I watch a town turn into the Stanford Prison Experiment, and, still, the death of a great and kind soul who brought so much joy and light to our world.
There were at least two versions of the encounter that led to a police officer fatally shooting an unarmed Ferguson teenager on Saturday: one from a young man named Dorian Johnson who told reporters he had been walking with the victim, Michael Brown, and the second from St. Louis County Police Chief Jon Belmar.
The versions agree on some basic facts: The officer approached the teens, who were walking in the street, there was an altercation in or near the car, and the officer fired several shots at the unarmed Brown, who was then several yards away, killing him.
In Johnson’s version, the officer reached out of the car to grab Brown by the throat. In Belmar’s version, which cited his department’s investigation, Brown reached into the car to attack the officer, and struggled to grab his weapon.
I’m on Etsy buying cross-stitch patterns for my vacation next week.