Dispatches from the Race War. Tim Wise

      We know because we have an entire history to tell us what time it is. That history has made it clear that when white folks kill or maim black people they will always have plenty ready to defend them, or at least to find nuance in the act, in ways no such complication need attach when the killer is black or brown. Those who now slander Martin, even in death, and rationalize his killing remind us just how little black life matters to some, and how little it has always mattered to them.

      These are the ideological soul mates of those who insisted Emmett Till really did say “Bye, baby” to Carolyn Bryant, as if this could even theoretically justify shooting him and tossing him in the Tallahatchie River.

      They descend from those who insisted against all evidence that Dick Rowland really did attack Sarah Page in that Tulsa elevator. Thus it was necessary to burn the black Greenwood district of the city to the ground in retaliation.

      They are the fetid offspring of those who stood beneath the swinging bodies of Thomas Shipp and Abram Smith, whom they had lynched, content in their certitude that they had—again, evidence be damned—raped a white woman.

      They are the vile and reeking progeny of those who regularly conjured justifications to affix black bodies to short ropes dangling from tall trees, to burn them with blowtorches, chop off body parts and sell them—or pictures of the carnage—as souvenirs.

      They are the odious inheritors of a time-honored and dreadful tradition in which virtually no white person’s misdeed against a black person can simply be condemned for what it is, and then have such condemnation followed by a period at the end of the sentence. No. Such condemnations as these, if offered at all, will inevitably be followed by a comma, the word “but,” and finally, a verbal casserole of exculpatory exhortation meant to undermine whatever judgment had previously been rendered.

      They are the companions of those who seek to brush aside the killings of Amadou Diallo, Patrick Dorismond, or any of the hundreds of other folks of color who comprise the disproportionate share of unarmed persons killed by law enforcement in cities across America over the years. They are the ones who say:

      If only they had put their hands up like they were told.

      If only they hadn’t run.

      If only they had answered the questions put to them politely and quickly.

      If only they hadn’t grabbed for their keys or wallet.

      If only they had understood that the men dressed in plainclothes, pointing guns at them were police.

      If only they hadn’t worn those clothes or that hairstyle.

      If only they hadn’t seemed nervous.

      If only they hadn’t fit the description of some criminal the police were looking for, and by “fit the description” we mean had they not been black or brown, between 5'8" and 6'6", walking upright.

      To persons like this, of whom there are millions, black people will always be suspect until proved otherwise, in ways that whites never are. Yet even as white people rationalize such disparity they will insist that white privilege is a myth and racism a thing of the past. Because words have no meaning, and irony is dead.

      And so black life continues to be viewed as expendable in the service of white supremacy and fear. And tonight, black parents will hold their children and try to assure them that everything will be okay, even as they worry that their child may represent the physical embodiment of white anxiety, and one day pay the ultimate price for that fact. In short, they will hold their children and lie, at least a little, because who doesn’t want their child to believe that everything will be all right?

      But in calmer moments, these parents of color will also tell their children the truth, that everything is not going to be okay unless we make it so. They will inform them that justice is not an act of wish fulfillment but the product of resistance. Black parents know these things like they know their names, and as a matter of survival they make sure their children know them too. And if their children have to know them, then mine must recognize them as well. And now they do. If black and brown children are to be denied innocence and the ability to remain free from these concerns, so too must mine sacrifice naïveté upon the altar of truth. And now they have.

      So to the keepers of white supremacy, I should offer this final word. You can think of it as a word of caution. My oldest daughter knows who you are and saw what you did. You have made a new enemy.

      One day, you might wish you hadn’t.

      KILLING ONE MONSTER, UNLEASHING ANOTHER

      REFLECTIONS ON REVENGE AND REVELRY IN AMERICA

      THERE IS AN especially trenchant scene in the documentary film Robert Blecker Wants Me Dead, in which Blecker—the nation’s most prominent pro-death penalty scholar—travels to Tennessee’s Riverbend Prison for the execution of convicted murderer Daryl Holton. Blecker is adamant that Holton, who murdered his children, deserves to die for his crime. Yet, when he gets to the prison on the evening of Holton’s electrocution, Blecker is disturbed not only by the anti-death penalty forces but also by those who have come to cheer the state-sponsored killing. He agrees with their position, but can’t understand why they feel it necessary to celebrate death, to party as Holton’s life is taken.

      The event is somber, he explains. Human life is precious, he insists; so valuable, in fact, that occasionally we must take the lives of killers to reinforce respect for it. But, he notes, there is no reason to revel in the death of another. His pleas for solemnity fall on deaf ears. His ideological compatriots cannot comprehend him. Even as he tells them he is on their side of the issue, they presume that his unwillingness to cheer the death of one as evil as Holton means he must not care about the children Holton killed. Ultimately, Blecker walks away shaken, not in his support for capital punishment, but by how others on his side seem to glorify death, even need it.

      I was reminded of this scene while watching coverage of the celebrations around the country that began last night, when it was announced that Osama bin Laden was dead. In front of the White House were thousands of affluent, mostly white college students from George Washington and Georgetown Universities, partying like it was spring break. Never needing an excuse to binge drink, the collegians responded to the news of bin Laden’s death as though their team had just won the Final Four. That none of them would have had the guts to go and fight the war they seem to support so vociferously—after all, a stint in the military might disrupt their plans to work on Wall Street, or get in the way of their spring formal—matters not, one supposes. They have other people to do the hard work for them. They always have. In New York, the multitudes may have been more economically diverse, but the revelry was similar. Lots of flags, chants of “USA, USA,” and an attitude akin to what one might experience at a BCS Bowl game. Once again, all of it was led mostly by guys who would never, themselves, have gone to war, to get bin Laden or anyone else.

      You have to wonder—actually, you don’t, because the answer is so apparent—would such throngs pour into the streets to celebrate if it were announced that a cure for cancer had been discovered, or a cure for AIDS? Would thousands of people be jumping up and down belting out patriotic chants if the president announced that our country’s scientists had found a way to wipe out all childhood diseases, malnutrition, or malaria in poor countries around the world?

      Though these maladies kill far more than bin Laden ever dreamed of, there is almost no chance that such an announcement would be met with drunken revelry. Partying is what we do when we kill people, when we beat someone. It is not what we do when we save lives or end suffering.

      Don’t get me wrong: I am not a pacifist. I know there are times when violence may be necessary, either in self-defense, in defense of others, or to prevent greater violence. If you were to break into my house and attempt to harm my family, I would be willing to kill you without so much as a moment’s hesitation. But I would not, upon taking your life, crack a cold one, invite friends over and dance around your bloody body. I would not be happy about what I had done. Taking a life,