"Dear Amadou..."

by Lance Johnson

I also know, with more clarity than ever, that the bullet-riddled man lying in the vestibule of his home could very well have been me.

I stood in the tiny entrance of 1157 Wheeler Avenue, the place Amadou once called home, amidst scattered plaster and wood fragments and huge bullet holes. Feeling death all around me, I was struck with a great sense of grief. Time froze as I envisioned the chilling details of Amadou's demise: his body trembling from fear, the flashes of light, guns blazing, bullets flying and as the smoke cleared, his wallet beside his lifeless body.

Ever since the Diallo shooting, I have felt trapped. Cornered, not as Amadou was in the vestibule as the four officers rained gunfire on him, but cornered in a society that will never understand me, or simply refuses to try -- no matter how hard I try. No matter how non-threatening, college-educated or "positive" I presume to be, I will always be judged by the shade of my skin. A shade my mother tells me to love unconditionally.

Young African American and Hispanic men are too often targeted by police officers because of their own misguided perceptions. In the last few years several cases have highlighted this alarming fact.

In 1998 three young black men and one young Hispanic man were traveling in a van on the New Jersey Turnpike when state troopers stopped them for speeding (many blacks believe the more accurate charge would be "DWB" -- driving while black). What happened next varies, according to which story you hear, the troopers' or the young men's version. What we do know is that 11 shots were fired, all from the troopers' guns. The four men were found inside the van, suffering from gunshot wounds. No weapons were found in the van.

Also in 1998, a family football game turned deadly when a police officer lost his cool. Anthony Baez, a young Hispanic man, was choked to death in front of his house by an NYPD officer. Baez's crime: hitting a squad car with a football, certainly not an offense punishable by death.

In 1997 Abner Louima, a black Haitian immigrant, was raped with a stick in an NYPD police precinct. His assailant, Officer Justin Volpe, carried a gun and a badge.

And just last year Amadou Diallo was standing by his own front door, "looking suspicious." When he reached for his wallet, the NYPD signed his death warrant. Forty-one bullets later and no one is held accountable. When will it end?

My greatest fear is that I will become a victim of some ignorant cop's preconceived notions -- that I'll be mistaken for a rapist, robber or drug dealer because I fit the description. I thirst for the day when I fit the description of a man, when I don't cringe in the presence of police officers, when I can walk the streets assured in my innocence.

Since my journey to Wheeler Avenue, I have experienced a recurring nightmare. In it, I am trapped in the vestibule, huddled beside Amadou as bullets explode through the doorway. We clutch each other tightly as the bullets dance off the walls, creating a cloud of thick smoke over our heads. Suddenly the gunfire stops and Amadou is no longer there. Somehow, he is out of harm's way and I am left to fend for myself.

"Dear Amadou, I'll see you when I get there, brother." The "there," in the message I left on the wall in the vestibule of 1157 Wheeler Avenue, refers to "heaven." I pray Amadou is in heaven, peacefully resting assured that justice will be his in the end.