Aura Bogado | The Nation

Manning in Fort Meade, Maryland, February 23, 2012. (Reuters/Jose Luis Magana)

Dear Chelsea,

I lost count of how many times I read your brilliant statement yesterday, a statement that illustrates your conviction for justice, and one that now places you with some of the most radical thinkers in history. I can read any single sentence from it and examine it with awe—and as a fellow writer, I can attest to how hard that is to do. Yet perhaps I’m writing accolades to you in order to distract myself from what is much harder for me to write, and to admit: I failed you, Chelsea Manning.

I should have paid much better attention to you and your trial. I could lie and tell you that I didn’t have time, but it’s simply not true. I failed you because I couldn’t quite wrap my head around the many charges levied against you. I failed you because of the way the unbelievable power of the US government was used against you. I failed you because it was easy to ignore you, and leave you in the backseat of my mind. I chose to read about you only from time to time, at my own convenience. I chose to talk about you with friends and colleagues only occasionally, but would stop talking about you when they quickly lost interest. And for all of that, and more, I’m sorry.

In your statement yesterday, you referenced the Declaration of Independence—only to improve upon it, by letting us know that you are “gladly” paying the price of imprisonment “if it means we could have a country that is truly conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all women and men are created equal.” By closing with that line, you’ve made clear that you recognize your duty to be one that advances the limits that keep the United States from achieving a full democracy. By expanding on the document that declared this nation into being, you’ve broadened the conversation to include the still-revolutionary idea that all human beings are equal, regardless of their gender.

You also made clear that you rooted your actions in the long struggle for racial justice. Few white women ever draw attention to the forced removal of Cherokee, Chickasaw, Choctaw, Muscogee and Seminole people during the Trail of Tears. Few white women recognize the sad significance of the Dred Scott decision, which failed to confer citizenship on free or enslaved blacks. Few white women—especially white women who are preparing to serve a prison sentence—recall that more than 100,000 Japanese Americans were interned during World War II. Most white women do not have to think about these injustices, and their silence secures their comfort in a stolen land that became wealthy on stolen labor. Yet you not only risked your comfort—you risked your very life.

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Your statement hardly comes as a surprise. You had already made perfectly clear that you believed the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan dehumanized people, and that that dehumanization made it easier to kill innocent people with impunity. And yet, I didn’t really listen. I skimmed articles, skimmed analysis, but never made the decision to support you like I should have. I’m sorry, Chelsea. I’m sorry, at the very least, that I wasn’t a better listener.

I understand now that you wanted to make the world better for women of color like me. Now it’s up to me to make the world a better place for women like you.

With love,

Aura

Read more about Chelsea Manning’s recent statements here.

Eight members of the Dream 9 gather just moments before crossing the US-Mexico border. (Credit: Steve Pavey/One Horizon Institute)
 

This post originally appeared at Colorlines.

A historic border crossing took place Monday, not under the cover of darkness or through a desert wilderness but in broad daylight near the Nogales border patrol station with thousands of supporters on the United States and Mexico sides cheering.

Nine people, all transnational activists working with the National Immigrant Youth Alliance (NIYA), are now being held at the Florence Detention Center in Arizona after petitioning to enter the United States on humanitarian grounds. This is the first time a group of longtime US residents who are technically Mexican nationals have attempted to return to the states by petitioning for humanitarian parole. Monday’s action attracted more than 10,000 viewers from around the world who tuned into a Ustream live feed to see what would become of the so-called Dream 9.

At around 1:30 pm EDT, the nine crossers gathered for a final press opportunity in Nogales, Mexico, before taking a short walk to the dividing line between the United States and Mexico. Eight people had originally planned to participate but Rosie Rojas, who said she traveled for three days to meet them, joined the action at the last minute.

Among the nine activists was 22-year-old Adriana Diaz, who was brought to Phoenix, Arizona, from Mexico when she was just four months old. Diaz graduated high school with honors in 2010 but decided to go to Mexico last year because of the fear she felt living under Sheriff Joe Arpaio. She attempted to attend college there but the country doesn’t recognize her US diploma. Had she waited just three months, she could have been eligible to stay in the United States under President Obama’s Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals program.

Diaz was one of six members of the Dream 9 who were either deported or left the United States on their own accord. The other three seeking humanitarian parole landed in Mexico in the last two weeks. Humanitarian parole would mean that the nine would be released on grounds that they don’t pose a threat to society. But authorities have apparently denied their petitions, so the activists are now seeking asylum.

While the Dream 9 crossers are now facing the perils of detention, the uncertainty was perhaps more elevated for the three activists who went to Mexico more recently to take part in the action. Although undocumented people in the United States live under the constant threat of detention and deportation, there is a relative safety in staying here. Those three who willingly crossed into Mexico are facing the new uncertainty of not being able to return to their respective homes, after having just left them.

Marco Saavedra, 23, who hails from Washington Heights in New York City and hasn’t been to Mexico since he was 3, is one such activist. He has already infiltrated a detention center and is currently in deportation proceedings. But last Thursday morning as he waited for his flight to Mexico Saavedra reluctantly admitted that this border action is riskier than others he’s worked on in the past. The risk of crossing into Mexico, of course, was that he could be denied humanitarian parole and be permanently barred from the United States. “I’m trying not to focus on that too much,” Saavedra said. “If I did, I might shut down and not be able to go through with it.”

The Dream 9 are not alone in their action. The NIYA is now maintaining a waiting list of people who want to use the strategy; they’re drawn to the idea that there is a humanitarian option. Just hours after the Dream 9 crossed, a group of thirty people who had already been deported to Mexico attempted to cross as well. It’s unclear what became of their effort. Pima County public defender Margo Cowan, who is providing legal services for the Dream 9, said she will support the effort of the thirty additional crossers, should they need it.

As the Dream 9 approached the border, supporters on the US side—including citizens, green card holders and undocumented activists—could be heard screaming, “Bring them home!” The NIYA informed supporters that the border patrol had sent an e-mail threatening immediate arrest and deportation as soon as the Dream 9 crossed into the United States. Those moments of uncertainty are traces, in some ways, of the anxiety that some family members feel, the loved ones of those more than 1.5 million people who have been detained and deported by the Obama administration. Yet the nine were not deported immediately, and are now in detention hoping to attain some form of relief in order to return home.

That desire relies heavily on lawmakers whose influence on Capitol Hill could sway the outcome. Representative Luis Gutierrez (D-IL) took to social media to say that he hopes “the Obama administration will do the right thing.” But for many, that’s not nearly enough.

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“We don’t care if he comes out on Facebook because that accomplishes nothing for us,” said Mohammad Abdollahi, who works with the NIYA. “If the Congressional Hispanic Caucus says they fight for families, they shouldn’t be posting on social media,” he added. “It’s about taking proper action and using the proper channels to make sure the Dream 9 can come home.”

Immigration officials would not comment on the crossing or subsequent detention citing privacy concerns. In order to attain asylum, the Dream 9 will have to convince authorities that they will face certain persecution in Mexico. But Obama and other lawmakers can take swift action to otherwise secure their release. To that end, the NIYA is asking supporters to sign a petition and call lawmakers to keep the pressure on as the Dream 9 are kept at the Florence Detention Center—a facility that is privately owned and operated by the Corrections Corporation of America.

Before the initial eight crossers took their action at the border, they spent several days mapping out how to organize other detainees once they were taken into custody. Their goal now is to not only demonstrate that a humanitarian return home is possible but also to halt deportations from detention.

What was the role of white supremacy in the acquittal of George Zimmerman?

Trayvon Martin. (AP Photo/HO, Martin Family Photos)

During its closing arguments today, George Zimmerman’s defense team played a controversial animation for the jury based on unproven assumptions. It likely stunned jurors, as well as those watching the trial today. Meanwhile, Fruitvale Station, a film that traces the killing of another young black man named Oscar Grant, also opens in theaters. At stake today in a Florida courtroom, and in theaters across the country, is the representation of black bodies, animating the idea of whether they’re worthy enough to live.

The Zimmerman defense animation was created by a graphic artist named Daniel Schumaker, and Zimmerman defense lawyers argue that it is largely based on John Good’s testimony. Good called 911 just minutes before Zimmerman shot and killed 17-year-old Trayvon Martin on February 26, 2012, and partially witnessed an apparent confrontation between Martin and Zimmerman—briefly, and in the darkness.

But Schumaker’s animation goes far beyond what Good actually saw. Good made the 911 call around 7 pm, when it was dark out; the animation, instead, provides light that was never available to the witness. The animation also illustrates Martin punching Zimmerman with his left hand; it’s indisputable that Martin was right-handed, and neither Good nor any other witness’ testimony was ever provided that said Martin used his left hand to strike Zimmerman. Although Judge Debra Nelson ruled against allowing the animation to enter into evidence (which would have meant that jurors would have been provided the opportunity to watch the video over and over again during deliberations), it likely captivated the jurors’—and the nation’s—attention during closing arguments on Friday.

It isn’t the first time defense lawyers have attempted to introduce a controversial simulation during a racially charged trial. Although it’s little remembered today, attorneys tried to introduce a similar animation during what we refer to today as the Rodney King trial, more than twenty years ago. I mention that we refer to it as the King trial only because it’s rather poignant that we easily remember King’s name, but rarely the name of the officers who were actually on trial. In contrast, social media users have worked to trend #ZimmermanTrial, reminding users that while #TrayvonMartin is to be remembered, George Zimmerman is the one on trial.

Viewers of today’s trial might still forget that, however—because Martin’s character is constantly being defended in the courtroom as if he were the one being charged. Like Martin today, King, just 25 at the time of the assault, was being similarly defended in the courtroom in 1992, despite actual video of the brutal beating. In courtrooms, sidewalks and imaginations around the United States, the black body itself is often considered a weapon, and today’s defense animation will echo that deeply racist, if not unconscious, national sentiment.

It’s hard to imagine better timing than the present for the opening of Fruitvale Station today. It dramatizes a day in the life—and death—of 22-year-old Oscar Grant, whose killing was also captured in an amateur video four years ago. The officer that killed Grant, Johannes Mehserle, was found guilty of involuntary manslaughter. The officer that inexcusably killed Grant at point-blank range was sentenced to just two years—but was granted double time for the days he had already spent in jail. After his conviction, Mehserle served less than five months in prison. But it’s just as remarkable that his case even came to trial. Since black bodies are latently considered weapons, the hands that kill them often do so with complete impunity.

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Starting today, filmmaker Ryan Coogler is providing anyone who will watch and listen the opportunity to hope against hope. After all, anyone who attends will likely know the sad ending contained in Grant’s killing. But Fruitvale Station isn’t just a sliver of time capturing another black man’s death or killing. And it isn’t an animation meant to indict a man who’s not even on trial. It’s a film written and directed by another young black man, Coogler, who’s worked with incarcerated youth and hails from Oakland. What’s already exceptional about the film’s debut is that it tells a story that is all too familiar, but in a different way—one that humanizes the subject against amateur videos and courtroom animations. And one that puts the nation on trial for the way we view black bodies.

Why did Trayvon Martin’s best friend face such harsh criticism from the media when she testified while George Zimmerman’s faced almost none?

Witness Rachel Jeantel watches defense attorney Don West while on the stand during George Zimmerman’s second-degree murder trial for the 2012 shooting death of Trayvon Martin in Seminole circuit court in Sanford, Florida, June 26, 2013. (Reuters/Jacob Langston/Pool)

The media berated Rachel Jeantel last week throughout her testimony during George Zimmerman’s trial for the murder of 17-year-old Trayvon Martin. So much so that other media took to defending Jeantel—who spent much of her day on the phone with Martin, whom she had first met in second grade, the day he was killed. That kind vitriol and subsequent support were absent, however, during yesterday’s testimony, when Zimmerman’s best friend, Mark Osterman, took the stand. That distinction speaks to the way that race remains a central theme in this murder trial.

No one denies that Jeantel does, in fact, have a drawl—one that could easily be confused with Paula Deen’s or even Mississippi Governor Haley Barbour’s drawls, which never drew public condemnation. In fact, in the mouths of white people, those southern accents are charming, and can even help fuel careers. Zimmerman defense attorney Don West (whose daughter, let’s not forget, posted a despicable photo on Instagram) repeatedly questioned Jeantel’s literacy on the stand. Despite the fact that Jeantel is trilingual, the court and the public—which is largely, and sadly, monolingual—displayed an obsession with determining the degree to which Jeantel can read cursive. Jeantel is indeed literate—but the question has nothing to do with her credibility as a witness in the first place. The attacks against Jeantel reflect an almost subconscious appetite for black destruction.

Meanwhile Mark Osterman, who described George Zimmerman as “the best friend [he] ever had,” was never questioned about his literacy. Perhaps that’s because he penned a book with his wife, titled Defending our Friend; the Most Hated Man in America. Yet the court and the public didn’t question the fact that Osterman essentially published and marketed a book based on the killing of a child. Osterman, too, had an attitude—he entered the courtroom with a snarky smirk, and possibly flirted with the all-woman jury by claiming that he doesn’t “like to curse in front of ladies.” Osterman’s sworn statements were at times bizarre—testifying, for example, that “anybody who is a non-convicted felon should carry a firearm,” and adding that “the police aren’t always there.”

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Because the court—and the public—is not preoccupied with dissecting Osterman’s statements the way they were with tearing apart Jeantel’s, they took his testimony to mean that anyone who is not a convicted felon should carry a firearm. But, in fact, Osterman actually said that any felon should carry a gun, if they have not been convicted. Osterman, a white man who apparently profited from the killing of a child through his book, was granted understanding and latitude that Jeantel, a black woman, was not.

One courtroom and one public have treated Martin and Zimmerman’s friends quite differently. And while the trial is clearly about the killing of Trayvon Martin, it is also profoundly about race, and about the way the public affords some privileges to some people, at the cost of detriment to others.

Mychal Denzel Smith explains how George Zimmerman’s innocence rely on criminalizing a 17-year-old black man.