8:16

8 minutes, 16 seconds. What most people would unconsciously determine to be a relatively short period of time, if given no specific reference. Certainly not long enough to wake up, jump from bed, brush your teeth, microwave a breakfast strudel and make it to the car, before heading to work. That's with the benefits of being a man without a beauty regiment. I'm sure that my wife would quantify anything less than 30 minutes as "asking the impossible."

8 minutes, 16 seconds. Probably the amount of time that my barber actually spends cutting my hair during the 25 minutes that I occupy his chair. Between the snippets of his recent sexual conquests, money problems, various philosophies, and criticisms of the President, he manages to lose a potential $50. But he doesn't complain, so neither do I.

8 minutes, 16 seconds. What we all wish could sum up the total experience of a trip to the DMV. Get in, take a number, watch the people in the various lines hand over their paperwork, see the clerks actually compute the entries, retrieve the customers relevant documents, smile and wave goodbye. Repeat.

Instead, the process always takes more than an hour and begins with watching some woman engaged in a spirited conversation behind the counter for 20 minutes before she returns to her window and lazily begins to accept customers. In fact, a trip to the DMV ranks somewhere near a trip to the dentist in my circle of friends.

8 minutes, 16 seconds. It had taken me nearly 45 years into my adult life to equate such a brief moment to "a lifetime." Literally.

Actually, by the time that there was an exact tabulation of time by which to reference, a lifetime of change had occurred.

On May 26, 2020, CNN reported the incident surrounding the death of George Floyd, in Minneapolis, Minnesota, on May 25th. The initial news clip I saw was approximately 2 minutes long and torturous to watch.

I initially stared at my television screen with a mixture of anger and relief. Pessimistic optimism. I was under the impression that another Black Man had been the victim of excessive force by non-Black police officers. Nothing new. It had happened to me so many times in Detroit, that it was almost no big deal. If you didn't go to the hospital or jail afterwards, it was considered a victory. I was yet to realize that I was witnessing an execution.

The sketchy details were something about a Black Man in Minneapolis, attempting to pass a counterfeit $20 bill and the police responding to the call. I only halfheartedly tried to follow the story. I was more fixated on the video footage, until things took a turn for the worse.

In the first few seconds, a tall Black Man was shown being pulled from a black Mercedes SUV, placed in cuffs, and detained against a building. My immediate sentiments were that possibly they had messed with the wrong Brother this time. Clearly, anyone who owned a newer model Mercedes was probably above counterfeiting twenties.

I prematurely concluded that the story might only be newsworthy because of its ridiculous insinuations. "Counterfeit $20 bill leads to beating of Black attorney..." or something to that effect. As I listened and watched more closely, the picture became clearer.

It wasn't until I actually read the caption across the bottom of the screen, that I realized the man had been killed. In the brief few seconds that I stood witnessing the visual image of the white officer now kneeling on the detained Brother's neck, my temperature had risen a few degrees.

My attention had been on something else at the time, but upon audibly hearing voices from the footage yelling for the officers to "get off his neck" and "you're killing him," I realized that one of the voices was my own. I wasn't just a little upset. I was enraged! So much so, that for the life of me, I cannot recall what I was doing when I first saw the news.

I'm not sure how everyone else processes their emotional reactions to things that they are passionate about, but powerless to control, but my coping mechanism is to vent. It seems a little silly to analyze, but the more curse words I can utilize to express my anger, the calmer I become. I rationalize it as strong language for strong feelings. Don't judge.

In the next hour or so, I paced the span of my house, utilizing a lot of curse words. Later, after I calmed down, I ventured outside to get some air.

In all honesty, I was relieved to encounter a number of people who had an opinion about the incident, because the incessant theories concerning the future of COVID-19 was becoming tiresome to hear. In a matter of recent weeks, the world had gone from typically violent, carefree, and self-absorbed, to terrified, uncertain, and deserted. The world looked like something out of a Sci-fi movie. Zombie Apocalypse 2020.

Stores were out of basic inventory. People were charging hundreds of dollars for masks. There were no restaurants to dine, clubs to socialize, events to attend, sports to watch, or DMV lines to wait in and complain about. Thus, it was a kind of sick relief for me to have the narrative revert back to what I call: "Black peoples problems."

So, breaking the Governor's executive order, a small group of my family and friends ignored social distancing to talk about shit that we were feeling. Needless to say, my mastery of four and twelve-letter words were on glorious display.

"Shit, you would think that any dumb motherfucker who wanted to keep his fucking job, would know to not use that kind of force while someone is recording the shit!" I fumed.

"Yeah. They said that it went on for close to 5 minutes. How did they justify not putting a Brother who's already cuffed, inside the cruiser?" My brother questioned.

"Fuck that! How about the other motherfucking officers standing there, essentially being goddamn accessories to murder?!" I answered with disgust. "I don't give a shit about a Blue Wall of Silence or none of that shit. If I got fucking kids to feed, or just like going home at the end of my shift, I'm gonna tell my motherfucking partner to get the fuck off this dudes throat before you get us all fucked up."

"That was crazy." My wife interjected. "If he was already cuffed, there was no reason for him to be on the ground getting choked. Even if they try to come back and say that he was resisting, which we know they will, there still isn't a good reason to kneel on his neck for 5 minutes after you cuff him."

During the period in which we were congregated, discussing the affair, the short, 60 second clip was shown on loop. With each successive viewing, our outrage was renewed.

The five of us agreed that there were just too many apparent red flags for this particular incident to be dismissed without some repercussions. Yet, we all agreed that there was some force at work that allowed the Minneapolis Police Department to employ officers that felt so comfortable with such an abusive display of authority. The arrest was clearly being recorded and protested by a number of people in a public business district. It wasn't like this occured in a residential neighborhood, in an isolated area of a yard or inside a home.

I was shocked by the brazen display of indifference to the cameras as well as the lack of intervention by the other officer shown standing nearby. The footage spoke volumes about the message that America had been sending to law enforcement historically, but especially in recent years: Black lives DIDN'T matter! If the narrative at any police roll call, for any department, would have been in line with the times, the first order would have to have been: "Do not kill an unarmed Black Man today."

However, it was painfully obvious that not only were those sentiments lacking, but so was basic human empathy as it related to the officer that stood by as his partner strangled a handcuffed prisoner for nearly 5 minutes. He apparently felt that he had no duty, nor incurred any responsibility for any potential charge of excessive force. If he had, common reasoning dictated that he intervene for no reason other than saving his own ass. Right?!

That realization sent me over the edge, just as I was beginning to feel that my voice was being heard by people who understood the depth of the problem.

"That's another thing..." I jumped from my seat on the sofa to punctuate. "How in the recesses of any fucking officer's brain, can he not be visualizing the headlines for the next day?!

How in the fuck can he go home and face his children, or his wife, who undoubtedly will have to be worried about someone Black attempting to retaliate against them because of his actions. Even if the guy didn't die?"

I offered a few more extreme scenarios of what might have occurred under my leadership and came back to reality. Our powwow lasted a couple hours until we were all mentally and emotionally exhausted.

Even with the corona virus ruining the fabric of life, we all had things to tend to, so we parted company, with my wife headed to work at the hospital. I decided to go work on one of our income properties to relieve some stress and regain my bearings.

As the day progressed, I endured a few phone calls and personal encounters that invaribly mentioned the footage that was being shown multiple times on all stations at this point. Each time, I would become irate and recount my outrage at the absurdity of Blacks having yet another murderous example of injustice, only to be met with promises of a "transparent investigation."

I made no secret of my discontent with the state of affairs and continued preaching my "fight fire with fire" answer to social reform. Of course, I was ignoring all rational avenues of obtaining justice because I felt that the world already had enough Jesse Jacksons. What we needed right then was something immediate, and the Minneapolis Police Department didn't have that sort of remedy in mind for us.

On the other hand, I didn't post a flyer for bandits to join my mercenary killer army, either. I would be lying to say that I was anxious to mount up and shoot down law enforcement officers. But, I'd also be lying to say that I was scared to do it, too.

It wasn't a matter of fear, or anticipated consequences, because nobody planned to get caught to begin with. It was the fact that we could kill 100 officers and still not have justice. We could spark a second civil war, win that war, and still face the same injustices as we had more than 150 years after renouncing slavery.

My insight was due to an understanding borne from history and sensibility. Going to war with any law enforcement branch had the same prospect of success as assembling your best high school basketball team to challenge the current NBA champions.

As much as I would love to go on a tangent of poetically articulated, violent threats about what will happen to America if they allow one more innocent, or unarmed Black Man to die, it would be a vile disservice to those who are truly on the front line of social and racial equality. Especially White activist!

That's right... I realize that we as a people tend to accuse White Americans of having "privileges" and not supporting our causes in any meaningful way. Yet, it's with the same "except the few" undertones as some people group Black folks as all being "niggerish." (Except the few).

I actually have a duty to defend my own culture as a Black Man. If I'm found defending the rights of Asian Americans, Gays, or Suburban skateboarders, it's as a favor to them, not because it benefits my cause. That's something to be celebrated and appreciated. That's why I said "especially" White activist.

I encourage all Blacks to pay attention to the next time we have an agenda that requires a strong voice. I bet there are Whites in the crowd, demonstrating their outrage just as loudly and proudly as we. More realistically, a close inspection might reveal the truth that we are often the minority at our own affair.

It's apparent that George Floyd didn't need to represent a perfect human being for other races and cultures to take up the cause of those of us who resemble him. I think it would be foolish to create a narrative founded upon racial divide, when the powers that be clearly see us all as one subjugated class. In this instance, race is secondary to the cultural injustice that is hidden behind policy and ignorance.

If my grandfather were still alive, I believe he would have used one of his famous phrases to predict the future surrounding the George Floyd affair.

"There's three sides to every story." He used to declare often.

As fate would have it, the story was like an old man's fishing tale. The more it was told, the bigger it got. In a matter of a few days, the George Floyd fish had apparently grown into a certified whale.

Despite the fact that there were immediate cries from the public demanding the arrest of the officers involved in the George Floyd murder, Minnesota officials were not immediately responsive. Almost overnight, there were numerous protest organized across the country. The first of these demonstrations, occurring in typically peaceful communities, like Grand Rapids, and Kalamazoo, Michigan.

Cities like Minneapolis, Detroit, Houston, New York, Washington D.C., Los Angeles, and others were probably less influential to the overall dialogue, due to the expectation of our reactions. All these had either a direct connection to George Floyd, or large Black populations. Thus, the small cities represented the untainted voice of a nation's broken relationship with our government.

The anger and frustration of an otherwise docile nation, exploded into violent resistance against law enforcement. Unlike typical uprisings where only personal property and local businesses were vandalized or looted, these demonstrations were primarily staged on the steps of police headquarters and government establishments. That approach signified that this time was different. People were not hiding, nor were they afraid of the consequences.

The local government's response was to institute early curfews and threaten to enforce them with a strong police presence on the streets. The news channels were inundated with images of masses of officers in riot gear, walking behind armored vehicles and deploying tear gas and smoke grenades.

In direct response, Donald Trump took to the media and social platforms to encourage violence against protesters as a means to quell demonstrations. He threatened protesters in Washington D.C., by mobilizing the National Guard to have them forcefully removed from the Catholic Church adjacent to the White House. He then immediately arranged to be photographed in the very same location, holding a Bible.

This didn't surprise most of the country, even though just 24 hours prior, he'd publicly denounced the actions of the Minneapolis Police Department and "demanded" a Federal Investigation into the matter. From experience, many of us already associated President Trump with what the Native Americans referred to as a "forked tongue."

More surprisingly was, concluding his recorded march back to the White House, he paused and turned to address an imaginary regime with a perfect "Heil Hitler" salute. His right arm suspended at a °65 angle. I swore that I saw him click his heels, but I could be mistaken about that.

Not content to allow the government to dictate the narrative by implementing executive orders designed to curtail the freedom of expression, protesters across America defied curfews and redoubled their efforts. It seemed that the perfect storm had formed in the wake of disease, oppression, fear, and injustice. Americans were backed into a proverbial corner, and came out swinging.

With the momentum of a galvanized population in full swing, the media seemed ready to pour gasoline onto the fire. Within several days after the initial video was displayed and speculations of the George Floyd incident lasting nearly 5 minutes, a new, full length video surfaced. The latter video showed 8 minutes and 16 seconds of an officer with his knee on George Floyd's neck, and him handcuffed, repeatedly saying; "I can't breathe," and crying out for his deceased mother, in agony.

Not that it was shocking to learn that there was more to the story than previously disclosed, but the fact that news stations were willing to show it in its entirety was unusual. In addition to airing the recording, numerous stations employed ex-law enforcement officers to analyze and offer opinions about the legality of the incident. Most of whom readily condemned the actions of the Minneapolis police officers, while asserting that "99%" of law enforcement officers were "good cops".

Apparently recognizing the trajectory of the emboldened public and realizing that the standard rhetoric would only make matters worse, the narrative began to change. The benefit of perspective allowed me to see the human factor of a world that seemed to have become anything but humane. In short, I realized that; the great thing about America (the country) is that it's ultimately comprised of Americans (the people).

Those officers in riot gear were part and parcel of the same protesters whom they faced. They held the same contempt for the policies and leadership that made their personal lives seem just as unfair. Unlike the "insurgents" that soldiers faced in warfare in other countries, American law enforcement did not replace human faces with images of terrorist who opposed freedoms.

In fact, within a week of sustained, albeit more peaceful protests, police chiefs around the country could be seen taking knees and marching alongside the protesters. This proved to be a very effective tactic for infiltrating the movement on one hand, but more realistically, it was a victory against the machine that sought to divide brothers and sisters.

I can imagine the President being proud to represent such an intelligent and reasonable group of people. David Duke, too.

I've always found it amazing how the perspective from the outside, looking in, gives a special vantage unseen by those fighting the battle. Thus, I feel as if I have a ringside seat to history being rewritten. Never before in America, have two opposing factions been sent to the front lines, fired the first shots of the revolution, and managed to halt the battle to discuss the marching orders given by those in power. If I were challenged to do so, I could devise no plot twist more unexpected, or unrealistic in any of my novels.

I'm sure that those who suit up in the uniform of their respective branches, protester or police, don't see the magnitude of their daily positions, but I do. Certainly, there are those who stand ready to follow any command, or possibly chomping at the bit for the opportunity to harm the opposing faction. However, that's beside the point. The fact that they represent the subordinate majority is what America promised from the start. That the intelligent "leadership" would always guard the freedoms of the common people. "With liberty and justice for all." Correct?!

The most beautiful part of this whole production is that when the "powers that be" failed to honor those promises, the people stepped in. Damn, that's beautiful!

Within weeks, the energy in America has shifted from violence and fear, curfews and aggression, to peace and tolerance and forgotten orders and provocations. Open ears, listening to the cries of a people saying that we "can't breathe." For once in my lifetime, "for the people, by the people" means something.

It has been said that the cornerstone of civilization is "The few will die, so that the many may live." I'd like to believe that George Floyd's death represents the manifestation of that truth. Certainly, a cynical opinion could reference other acts of senseless violence and murder against unarmed Blacks since his death, but Rome wasn't built in a day.

I mentioned that the objective of every police roll call should have been "Do not kill an unarmed Black Man today," prior to George Floyd's death. I bet you that over 100,000 police officers heard that mantra today! That represents progress. You draw the plans before constructing the house, right? Well, imagine this reconstruction period as having infinite possibilities. Not everyone can see the vision, or share the same desires of a united people with a shared overview. That's inconsequential. We need not all agree on the dessert. We can simply agree that the entree cannot be America's children. We can collectively stop feeding the machine.

If you're lost on that equation, maybe you should take 8 minutes and 16 seconds to imagine the weight of a world without a conscience weighing on your neck. Try explaining that you can't breathe for the 10th time, to an expressionless face. Imagine the fog in your mind as you realize that your life is slipping away and no one is there to help. With your last breath, ignore the living who have failed you and call on the dead for help. Stop breathing.

Give your last breath to the same world that stole your only hope for a tomorrow. Become a life that matters.