n the late hours of February 4th, 1999, Amadou Diallo,
a young West African immigrant was shot forty one times by police.
The young man was coming home from work after midnight, hungry, thinking about getting something to eat, most likely. He worked long hours as a street vendor, you know, the guys we routinely ignore while we run up and down 8th Ave. The four officers, incidentally, all white, saw him in his darkened doorway, spotted him as a suspected serial rapist who had been terrorizing the area, and believed he was reaching for a gun. The young man, born in 1975, was actually pulling his wallet out of his pocket.
Diallo died. The 41 bullets in the dark hallway leading to his apartment made sure of that. The bullets shattered the doorway, splintering wood and bone in a hurricane of gunfire. His life will never be returned to his family, who have been paid $3 million by New York City, many millions less than the $81 million originally sought, $20 million from each of the officers, $20 million from the City, and $1 million for each bullet fired.
I found that quite poetic, yet terrifically tragic. $1 million per bullet does not even begin to cover the debt. How can you put a price on life? Racist attitudes that make for itchy trigger fingers? A police commission that would rather uphold its image than justice itself?
The officers were not disciplined, but were supposed to get a refresher course in firearms use. Apparently the first time they went through that class, someone wasn’t paying attention. Then it was decided that they knew how to use their guns and didn’t need to go to summer school after all. The officers faced no disciplinary action whatsoever, were acquitted, and are now likely back on the streets. It is more than sad. I don’t feel a thing, that is how sad it is. I am sad for the Diallo family. It is mortifying, but completely unsurprising.
Isn’t it weird how racist the world is? Bruce Springsteen wrote a song called “American Skin – 41 Shots.” It has yet to be released, but he performs it live. Bruce is amazing to see live, and even though I would be considered an unlikely fan, I am utterly seduced by his music and his performances, juggernauts lasting 3 and a half hours, that feel like a roller coaster ride, a Tunnel of Love. I cannot believe his stamina and grace, and I adore the sweaty Born in the USA On Fire pulling Courtney Cox out of the audience bandanna icon that he is. The song is an obvious protest against the decisions made by the NYPD panel, and widely recognized as one of his most powerful compositions. For this, he is was publicly denounced by the police commissioner as a “Floating Fag.” Isn’t that a weird thing to call him? What is a floating fag and why does writing a song about a travesty of justice so obviously glossed over because racism exists IN YOUR MOTHERFUCKING FACE EVERY DAY NO MATTER WHAT ANYONE SAYS make you a floating fag?
I want to be a floating fag. It makes me feel like that is what I should aspire to. Floating fag. Buoyed by justice, fighting for a cause that isn’t necessarily your own, for the great Bruce Springsteen is neither West African, nor is he an immigrant, nor is he Black, but he will float, and ride on the Queen Mary to see that Amadou Diallo is not forgotten, that he will not fade into the background and be another sad story of the ghetto, because there have been too many, they sound too alike, they must come to an end.
I wish that somehow this could unite the African American and the GLBT communities, that we could float together, and maybe, just maybe, with each other to hang onto, we will be able to swim to the shore.