Aging Capriciously

This series of “Autobiographies” started out as seven stories to commemorate some very special people.  They have one thing in common.  They are all dead.  Some have a burial place, and some were simply discarded like pieces of trash.  Their stories are told by the deceased themselves.  Their voices cry out from the fields, alleys, streets, rivers, and graveyards to speak.  I hear their cries.  They are channeling me to tell their stories to you.  They want you to know what their living and dying was for.  This week, George Floyd will tell you in his own words about his life, loves, dreams and death.  He is deceased now, talking from the great beyond where he has gone to meet his maker.

George Floyd

My name is George Floyd.  My full name is George Perry Floyd Jr.  The name George is derived from the Greek word γεωργός (georgos) meaning “farmer and earth worker.”  I suppose it means that I am or was the “salt “of the earth.  Many kings, authors and great people have been named George.  The most famous for Americans being George Washington.  My family name was Floyd.  Floyd could have been my first name and people used to kid me and call me Floyd instead of George and tell me that my name was backwards.  Floyd is or was a slave name being derived from English or Irish heritage.

I was proud of my name.  Many Black folk get rid of their slave names and change them to Muhammad or Mustafa or some other Muslim name.  Others simply find a “non” slave name to adopt.  I was not ashamed of my name and I was always proud to be an American.  I was never one to say that all White people are devils or that White people are all the enemy.  I had many White friends as well as Black friends.  You can grow up in America being White and having no Black friends but if you are Black, you will more than likely have many White friends.  I got along with everyone.

I was born on October 14, 1973 in Fayetteville, North Carolina.  I grew up in Houston Texas.  I was always big for my age and I loved sports where I excelled.  I also loved music and was part of a hip-hop group called “Screwed Up Click”.  My stage name was “Big Floyd.”  I was or thought I was headed for greatness.  Somehow though greatness never came.  I did not make any major league teams and I never got any big breaks on the music scene.  Like many young Black men with no foreseeable future, I stumbled into drugs.

Drugs will do three things for you.  1^st. Destroy any will to achieve or drive for excellence.  The drug becomes a substitute for greatness.  2^nd.  Destroy your finances.  You can never make enough money to support a drug habit.  3^rd.  Lead to crime.  In order to support a drug habit, you must either deal or steal.  I chose to do both.

I see the millions of people marching now in my name.  They are marching for peace and justice.  I spent several years in jail and was a criminal five times over.  I was arrested for an armed home invasion and sentenced to prison for five years.  I was a bad guy.  I was no saint.  I had five children out of wedlock, some of whom I abandoned.  If you had killed me back then, it would have been no great loss to humanity or my family.

In 2013, after leaving prison, I started to turn my life around.  I had kicked my drug addiction and I decided to devote my life to helping others.  I wanted to lead a more Christian life and help other young men do the same.  In 2014, I moved to Minneapolis to find work and new opportunities for my new life.  People called me the “Gentle Giant” because I would not hurt a flea.  I could easily have hurt at least two of those cops who grabbed me if I had wanted to.  I went down without a struggle.  I was 46 years old and things were looking up when I died.

8:08 PM – 14 Minutes to Live

It was May 25^th, 2020.  It started off much as any day might.  Like many Americans, I had lost my job due to the Covid-19 Virus.  I was thinking about where I might find some other job opportunities.  I spent some time talking to my girlfriend and took some pain killers for a low back ache problem that I had.  I watched some sports on TV.  Later that day, I decided to take a drive with a couple of friends to a nearby market to get some cigarettes.  The weather was clear.  It was around 8 PM and the local temperature was 76 degrees.

I went into the market.  I picked out my favorite brand of cigarettes and paid the store clerk with a twenty-dollar bill.  I walked out to my car, got in and was sitting in the car talking to my friends when the store clerk and another guy comes running up to my car and starts demanding that I give him his cigarettes back.  He is also telling me to give him my phone.  He is hard to understand, and I do not know why he is demanding that the cigarettes be returned.  I decided to just ignore him and hope he will go away.

The next thing I know is that two cops are banging on my car window and telling me to put my hands on the steering wheel.  One cop has his gun drawn and is pointing it at me. The rest of the events happened so fast that they are hard to describe.  I am trying to ask, “What have I done?”  I do not want to seem resistant and I am trying to comply with the demands that the police are making while I am also trying to find out what I have done.  Next, I am told that I am under arrest.  What is happening?  What did I do?  What am I being arrested for?  I am then handcuffed and pushed to the police car.  I am as compliant as I can be, but the handcuffs hurt and my whole world is one big confusion.

Then things go from bad to worse.  One officer pushes me to the ground and kneels on my neck.  “I can’t breathe.  I can’t breathe.”  I scream this out several times.  I plead for him to take his knee off of my neck.  “Please don’t kill me.”  My pleas are ignored.  “I can’t breathe.”  I think I am dying.  “Mama.”  I know that I am dying.  “Mama.”

I died at 8:22 PM but the officer did not take his knee off my neck until 8:27 PM.  He had kept his knee on my neck for 8 minutes and 24 seconds.  What did I do?  Why did they murder me?  I was only 46 years old and my life was just beginning to come together.  What did I do to deserve such a fate?  Did God not forgive me for my former transgressions?  Was it because I was a Black man?  Do White people really hate and despise all Black people?

They buried me on June 9, 2020 in Houston Texas where I grew up.  I am amazed at all the people that attended my funeral.  Life sure is funny.  Thirty years ago, I had a dream.  I was 16 years old and when a friend asked me what I wanted to do with my life, I said “I want to touch the world.”  Now I see that I have touched the world.  I did not think I would have to die to do it though, but in one sense it is a cheap price to pay.

The life of a Black person in America is never easy.  Institutionalized racism, personal racism, prejudice, and discrimination are woven into the very fabric of our daily lives.  From the economic sphere to the social sphere it is difficult for a Black person to rise above the hatred and bigotry that surrounds them.  Few if any White people understand what it is like to be loathed because of the color of your skin.

I go now to find God.  I want to know if it will ever end.  I want to know why God allows it to happen.  Will there ever be a day in America when a Black person can walk down a street and not be judged by the color of his or her skin?