We played St. Louis just two weeks later, and the players on the Rams came out on the field with the “Hands Up, Don’t Shoot” pose. When I saw them with their hands up, I was all for it. Those who did it were all offensive players, like wide receiver Kenny Britt and running back Tre Mason. I was so proud of them it almost made me sad that I was going to have to knock the snot out of them. I supported the Rams’ action especially because Ferguson is a forgotten part of their city, and as they were bringing Michael Brown’s death to Monday Night Football a military crackdown was happening just a few miles away. It takes that kind of solidarity to make any kind of change.
When we played the 49ers soon after, I got a sack and struck the same pose, “Hands Up, Don’t Shoot.” A lot of white people still don’t understand what that slogan even means. They counter with the disputed argument that Michael Brown’s hands weren’t up, therefore the very gesture spreads a lie about how he was killed. That’s not the issue. “Hands Up, Don’t Shoot” speaks to the fact that you can do everything right when interacting with the police. You can hold your hands up high, remember every detail of “the talk” with your parents, and still be shot. Ask Terence Crutcher of Tulsa, Oklahoma. His murder was all caught on video: he walked toward officer Betty Shelby, his hands held up high, and he was still struck down. Even though this was videotaped, she wasn’t only acquitted. She got her job back, along with back pay, and the killing will be wiped from her employment record. She literally is getting away with murder.
As I’ve said, people call the NFL the “No Fun League.” They will fine you if you’ve got the wrong color shoelaces on. Yet, after Ferguson, when players were raising their hands and writing things like “My children’s lives matter” on their uniforms, the league office didn’t come down with fines. (I tried to do something a little more fresh and wear cleats with Muhammad Ali and Malcolm X airbrushed on, but they said I couldn’t. Too bad; I liked those cleats.) The bigger point is that I think Roger Goodell is still a human being, so maybe he felt something. Even though some might think he’s an owner-controlled hand puppet, he had a human response to that moment back in 2014. Not to say that NFL headquarters supports the movement, but at that particular moment they could tell it wasn’t the best time to crush players who spoke out or altered their uniforms a fraction. Also, Black men make up 70 percent of the players. I think they knew if they tried to crack down on us, they’d open up one hell of a confrontation. Maybe the pain of Trayvon Martin’s family, the pain of Mike Brown’s family, and the pain of the entire town of Ferguson was enough for them to say, “Let the players express what they are feeling.”
Of course, the limits of what they’re willing to accept were exposed when Colin Kaepernick took the Black Lives Matter protest to the national anthem. Colin opened up so many eyes and took so much abuse for stepping out first. It hurt him that he is a quarterback, the face of a franchise. He was also at the end of his contract. The courage to do what he did, given his situation, is greatly undervalued. As I said earlier, I’m sitting during the anthem in part because I’m not going to let the memory of Colin’s action die, and I know I’m not alone. NFL executives have talked anonymously to the media about Kaepernick, and it’s a sin, the things they’ve said, without giving their names. They’ve compared him to Rae Carruth, a Carolina Panthers wide receiver who had his pregnant girlfriend killed. He had her killed! And that’s how they’ve categorized Colin. They are scared of Black men who overcome the fear to stand up. So many people can’t handle that. That’s why the lives of powerful Black men and women have been destroyed or simply snatched. Who would want to step up, given those risks? But still we do.
When I read a biography of Fred Hampton, it was clear that he was aware of the risks to his personal safety, but he also knew he had the power to change lives. He knew he could make Black lives matter. Then there is my hero Muhammad Ali. The public only embraced him after he lost the power of speech, late in his life. But Muhammad Ali, to me, was always a hero, because he talked all kinds of smack about politics, Nixon, and Black life, and he backed it up. He was willing to say what needed to be said, no matter the persecution. He lived by a code that is easy to say but so hard to follow: speak the truth, even if it hurts. And if you don’t agree with some shit, don’t mumble around it.
Ali said it and made it plain: “I don’t agree with killing the Viet Cong. They didn’t do anything to me. They never called me nigger! People here call me nigger every day. You won’t let me in the restaurant. My wife can’t even go to the same store. And you’re telling me I should go to the white man’s war?” My commitment to Black Lives Matter is to make sure that people like Fred Hampton and Muhammad Ali did not die in vain. We will build on what they brought to our lives. It’s called standing on the shoulders of giants.
My open commitment to the Black Lives Matter movement, beyond on-field gestures, social media posts, and locker room debates, started in Seattle at an event in 2016 called Black Lives Matter in Schools. Teachers planning to teach Black history at a local elementary school had received
