Portal de Periódicos da CAPES

Trayvon Martin: Reflections on the Black and Jewish Struggle for Justice

2014; Duke University Press; Volume: 29; Issue: 1 Linguagem: Inglês

10.1215/08879982-2394398

2164-0041

Yavilah McCoy,

Race, History, and American Society

Jewish activist communities have historically been allies to communities of color in the fight for racial justice and equality in our country. Jews were among those who worked to establish the NAACP in 1909. In the early 1900s, Jewish newspapers drew parallels between the Black movement out of the South and the Jews’ escape from Egypt, pointing out that both Blacks and Jews lived in ghettos, and calling anti-Black riots in the South “pogroms.” Historically, Jewish leaders stressed the similarities rather than the differences between the Jewish and Black experience in America, and emphasized the idea that both groups would benefit the more America moved toward a society of merit, free of religious, ethnic, and racial restrictions. In more recent history, Blacks and Jews fought side by side in the Civil Rights Movement. The kinship and relationship between the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King and Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel has been regularly and continually celebrated.What has been less often discussed is the relevance of the social circumstances that created and, in some cases, still sustains a rift between Black activists and white Jewish anti-racism activists. In the late 1960s, the birth of the Black Power movement shifted the emphasis in Black activist communities toward self-determination, self-defense tactics, and racial pride. While this shift was crucial to the evolution of Black consciousness and identity in America, the expansion from the singular nonviolence and racial integration approach espoused by King left many white Jewish activists with little input in the Black community and an anti-racism movement that seemed to be moving on without them.Since the 1960s, efforts at coalition building and solidarity work for justice between white Jewish and Black communities have suffered and never reached the pinnacle that was reached during the early days of the Civil Rights Movement. The rapid decline of American anti-Semitism since 1945 (alongside the nation’s continuing and pervasive anti-Black racism) and the increasing gap in accumulated wealth and education between Black and Jewish communities have widened the rift of perceived shared interests between Black and Jewish activists. Many of the civil rights struggles that joined Blacks and Jews in the middle of the last century — i.e., anti-lynching, desegregation, voter registration, etc. — were typically organized around divisions in society that easily identified injustices between persecutors and their victims (a division in which Jews could also identify as victims). Between the late 1960s and the present, much of the anti-racism work that has galvanized Black activists has shifted and come to be concerned more specifically with disparities in access, privilege, and power between those with and without white skin privilege in our country.In 2013, the lack of deep and abiding connections between Black and Jewish communities of activists became apparent to me in the disparate responses I encountered to the events surrounding the killing of Trayvon Martin and the subsequent acquittal of George Zimmerman.Here’s a quick summary for any readers who need a reminder of what happened: in July 2013, after more than sixteen hours of deliberation, a jury of five white women and one Latina woman found George Zimmerman not guilty of second-degree murder and manslaughter. Previously, on a drizzly February night, Zimmerman had shot Martin, an unarmed seventeen-year-old, in a gated community in Sanford, near Orlando. Citing Florida’s stand-your-ground law, Sanford police originally did not charge Zimmerman or take him into custody. Only after social media outrage and civil rights protests alleged racial profiling and discrimination did Governor Rick Scott appoint a special prosecutor, who brought the charges against Zimmerman six weeks after the shooting. In the July 2013 hearing, the jury found that while Zimmerman justifiably used deadly force in his struggle with Martin on the night of February 26, 2012, they also believed that such force was “necessary to prevent imminent death or great bodily harm” to himself — Florida’s definition of self-defense.In the days following the verdict, I found myself inspired by the groundswell of activism that was led by young people of color across the United States and troubled by what appeared to be a great silence among many of the white Jewish social justice activists I know in regard to the events that transpired. There were the usual Jewish advocates for racial justice issues like Jews for Racial and Economic Justice, which organized groups in New York to attend rallies and continued to address and connect the issues in the Trayvon Martin case to New York’s stop-and-frisk law and other pervasive issues of fear, safety, and control in New York’s policing policies.The Anti-Defamation League’s public statement said it did not question the verdict but also argued that the case “raised serious questions about the wisdom of stand-your-ground laws and the easy access to concealed weapons permits,” noting that “had neither been in place, this tragedy may have never occurred” and calling for “continued and much-needed discussion about the lingering impact of racism in society.”Tikkun and the Tikkun Daily blog published roughly twenty pieces about Trayvon Martin and Zimmerman’s acquittal, including a piece by executive editor Michael Lerner, as well as numerous pieces on stop-and-frisk. And congregants from Rabbi Lerner’s synagogue in the San Francisco Bay Area, as well as members nationwide of the Network of Spiritual Progressives (Tikkun’s broader activist community), reached out to local Black churches immediately following the verdict and joined their church services that Sunday to express outrage at the verdict and physically stand in solidarity with the Black community.There was also a smattering of editorial pieces that were put out mostly by individual members of the Jewish activist community who were not speaking on behalf of organizations, but thinking about the issues, attending rallies, and contemplating how they might be part of an anti-racism moment that was sweeping the country.Despite how proud I was of each of these efforts, in the weeks that followed the verdict it was difficult not to notice how isolated these responses were in comparison to the tremendous outpouring of passion and energy that I was witnessing among African American activists who with minimal resources had successfully organized protests in over one hundred cities across the nation. Where were the abundant number of Jewish synagogues and agencies that regularly stated commitments to social justice when it came to standing in solidarity with these groups? How were we, as a Jewish community, standing in support of people of color and their leadership at this crucial moment? As an African American Jewish activist, with strong ties to both of the communities that I hail from, I was acutely aware of how, despite the active engagement of some Jewish leaders and activists, the Jewish community on the whole was not becoming energized around this issue.On the day of the Zimmerman verdict, and in the weeks that followed, I watched diligently as organized protests erupted around the country. Fellow African American activists and I organized vigils and stayed close as we struggled to feel our way through the outrage, disappointment, and anger that was sweeping our African American families and our communities near and far. I had conversations, almost daily, with mothers who saw the safety of their own teenage sons threatened by the verdict in the Zimmerman case.I spoke to Black men from a variety of class positions who felt compelled to revisit their own vulnerability to being guilty until proven innocent as a result of this case. I spoke to my own fifteen-year-old son, who feared the consequences of walking from friends’ homes after dark in our Jewish but majority-white suburban community after having learned that Trayvon Martin — a seventeen-year-old boy walking home at night, unarmed, with only a bag of candy in hand — could be pursued and shot on the suspicion of being a threat. I watched our first African American president stand before media cameras himself and state before our nation that “Trayvon Martin could have been me.” I spoke to African American activists, young and old, who were not surprised by the failure of the Florida legal system to serve and deliver justice in the death of a young Black man, but who were duly outraged at current laws being used and upheld in Florida and twenty other states to support and encourage vigilantism and further extend the extra-judicial killings of people of color in the United States. Amid this swirl of righteous indignation among people of color and their white allies, I became puzzled by the absence of a more vigorous response among my beloved white Jewish activists and the broader Jewish community.In previous months, when the Boston Marathon bombing occurred, many of the Jewish social justice agencies that I belonged to organized impromptu gatherings and “think and listens” to discuss our individual and communal responses to the bombing. At the time, the Newtown massacre and the Boston Marathon bombing seemed reason enough to galvanize Jewish activists and communities against insufficient gun control legislation in our country, and concern and conversation about these events seemed to abound everywhere. In the case of the Trayvon Martin killing and Zimmerman acquittal, it seemed strange that, among those same social justice agencies, there was not similar outrage and Jewish organizing being called for regarding gun control again, or more importantly, the existence of stand-your-ground laws in Florida and other states.It seemed odd to me, given the uproar that I saw sweeping African American communities across the nation, that the majority of our national Jewish social justice leaders did not seem to see the need to organize or deliver a means for our Jewish community to take advantage of the historical moment posed by a national call for racial justice. Why were so few Jewish leaders calling for a more rigorous soul-searching among Jews on the nature and context of racial inequality in our country? As an Orthodox Jew, it was evident to me that the verdict was released just two days before Tisha B’Av, the Jewish holiday of mourning. While leaders like Michael Lerner immediately seized upon the opportunity of the holiday to speak out against the hatred that has consistently targeted and destroyed Jews and many other minority groups in our world, it was disappointing not to find more Jewish leaders adopting a similar stance of solidarity with the African American community in the name of our Jewish ethics, values, history, and understanding.One major question that plagued many of us throughout the weeks that followed the announcement of the Zimmerman verdict was whether the outcome of that tragic evening and ensuing trial might have been changed if the race or ethnicity of Trayvon Martin and/or George Zimmerman had been different. Given the historical relationship of allied struggle between the Black and Jewish communities of our nation, I additionally wondered whether the Jewish leadership response might have been different if the assailant were white and Christian and the young man who lost his life white and Jewish. If nothing else, would there not have been more solidarity and empathy expressed by Jewish leadership in support of the pain and suffering endured by the victim’s family?In the numerous conversations I pursued with members of my liberal synagogue and Jewish community, I encountered a very crude reality indicating that it indeed did seem to matter that it was Trayvon and not Tuvia who was shot. The members of my synagogue who would openly engage the topic with me seemed to walk carefully around the hedges of the case, claiming that they couldn’t possibly judge the outcome of this case since the facts will forever remain obscured. Others defended the right of Jewish leaders to expend their limited attention span and political capital judiciously by not involving themselves in every issue of potential injustice that came their way. Given the loss of life, stereotyping, and discrimination that so blatantly permeated this case, and given the deep sorrow and anguish that I had personally witnessed in communities of color, I found myself astounded by the increasing sense of disaffection that I encountered in my fellow Jewish brothers and sisters. I began to wonder about the consequences of a growing lack of relationship between my two beloved communities, and the prospects of the two communities finding some future platform for standing together for justice.According to a Washington Post survey taken and released just over a month after the verdict, 86 percent of African Americans said they disapproved of the verdict, with almost all of them saying they strongly disapproved; 87 percent went so far as to say the shooting was unjustified. In contrast, 51 percent of whites said they approved of the verdict, while just 31 percent of whites disapproved. The poll also surveyed the partisan divide among the whites that were polled and found that 70 percent of white Republicans and 30 percent of white Democrats approved of the verdict. Among all whites, the poll revealed that one-third felt that the shooting was unjustified, one-third felt it was justified, and the other third felt that they didn’t know enough to have an opinion. In light of this data, efforts to build a broad and deep movement of engaged white people to work in partnership with communities of color for real racial justice in the United States and everywhere continue to be challenged.How do Jews relate to this picture? The survey’s statistics did not include a breakdown to indicate whether white Jews’ opinions on the verdict lined up with the opinions of the white community as a whole. Among Jewish activists of color whom I polled personally, there seemed to be considerable agreement that the overwhelming public silence of white Jewish leaders and activists on this issue — in contrast to their work on other issues of justice that did not directly involve race or the robust activity of national leaders and activists in communities of color — did leave room for continued reflection on the current state of alliance between Black and Jewish activists in regard to anti-racism work. While published polls regarding the two-term election of Barack Obama have revealed meaningful and significant differences between Jewish voting/opinion patterns and (non-Jewish) white voting/opinion patterns, the disparity in affective and political responses to the Trayvon Martin case between the Jewish community and the Black community reveals questions regarding the depth of the relationship and underlying connections that support this and other voting alliances.As white Jews aim to effectively examine Jewish identity and activism in the context of race, power, access, and privilege, there is a particular challenge that is bound to emerge. It is an ever-present challenge faced by those who carry white skin privilege, alongside other racial and cultural complexities, in a white supremacist system that has consistently denied racial nuance for the purpose of granting privilege along the imaginary racial extremes of Black and white. Many white Jews do not self-identify as white but have assimilated enough into the dominant culture to pass as white and benefit from the privilege and power associated with whiteness. The challenge that emerges is in finding ways to simultaneously acknowledge privilege and access (as they have been granted and sought) while decrying a system that has historically denied human complexity for the purpose of unequally and unfairly distributing power and equity.An awareness of the history of anti-Semitism and its culmination in the Holocaust has made it difficult for many white Jews to explore the concept of being oppressed and being the oppressor simultaneously. Yet, in order for white Jewish efforts at anti-racist activism to be successful and authentically received by communities of color, there must be evidence of Jews’ deep grappling with their relationship to race, class, privilege, and identity in this country. Activists who are willing to openly and honestly explore the challenge of ways that Jews hold white privilege and collude with systems of white supremacy daily will be most successful in standing with communities of color to decry systemic racial inequities and in taking stands against them.Because I have deep roots in both African American and Jewish circles, I have had many occasions to consider how best both Black and Jewish activist communities might work together to respond to instances of acute racism in our society. Despite the stark socioeconomic differences and racial disparities that continue to separate the on-the-ground realities of activist communities in both groups, there is hope that the efforts in both communities to create identities and activism that reach beyond our distinct oppressions will prevail.What has emerged for me, in the disparity of responses that I encountered to the Trayvon Martin verdict, is an underscoring of the fact that U.S. history has taught Blacks and Jews two very different lessons. In the Jewish experience of the United States, education and hard work eventually paid off and thus the future appears full of possibility. Blacks, however, have faced a legacy of three-and-a-half centuries of racism on American soil and thus know, especially given the outcomes of judicial cases such as Trayvon Martin’s, that something more than dedication is required.Currently there exist huge disparities between Jews and Blacks in terms of vulnerability to crime, family breakdown, drug addiction, alcoholism, and systemic inequities in educational achievements. The “culture of poverty” that exists in today’s inner cities is incomparable to anything in the contemporary American Jewish experience. As Black and white Jewish activists struggle to fight together toward racial equality and justice, it seems important that existing differences between our communities in terms of access, privilege, and power continue to be explored and not taken for granted.As I encourage people to keep reaching for authentic and integrated relationships with one another, despite the senseless loss of life associated with this tragedy, I realize that there is a great deal of work that needs to be done to make authentic and integrated relationships between my peer activists in Black and Jewish communities a reality.Reflecting on this, I think back to 1991 when Gavin Cato, a young African American boy, was struck and killed by a white Jewish man who was illegally running a red light in order to follow the Lubavitcher Rebbe’s motorcade. The Crown Heights riots that ensued erupted on the corner of the block I lived on. At the time, in my young life, I learned firsthand how powerful and important nurturing relationships across racial lines can be in bringing communities together to stand for justice. In a community being torn apart by anger, frustration, hatred, and violence, I watched African Americans and white Jews find ways to come together in the face of the death of a young African American child and the subsequent vengeful murder of a white Jewish man. I learned lifelong lessons watching those, white and Black, who had been able before the riots to pass each other on the street and greet each other lead the way to healing and understanding.It was the fact that my father had for years said “Good Morning” and “How are you?” and listened to hear the answer from both our African American and Jewish neighbors in Crown Heights that served him when he came out of the subway in a kippah and tzitzit into a full-scale riot, with people overturning cars and chanting “Jew, Jew, Jew”: he was able to pass through the riot safely and remain unharmed. It was these same relationships that helped him to stop the attack and beating of one of our white Jewish neighbors and that subsequently enabled him to save this neighbor’s life.The ability to stand in the chasm of hatred and violence and call for justice often relies on the memory of a shared history of respect. It was the white Jews who did speak regularly to their Black neighbors on our block and treat them kindly who could speak with integrity and be heard following the violence in Crown Heights. It was these consistently caring human beings who helped lead us toward healing the inequities that sparked the hurt, anger, and frustration that erupted in violence in our community. It was in Crown Heights that I learned that efforts to build justice and equality across racial lines must always be supported by an investment — before fires begin to burn — in ongoing and enduring relationships of respect and solidarity.In the recent events surrounding the death and acquittal of George Zimmerman, I have been forced to look more closely at the “ongoing and enduring” state of relations between my equally beloved African American and Jewish communities. It has been difficult to see so viscerally how distant both communities seem to have grown from one another in terms of personal relationships and understanding of our differing struggles. But my experience, if nothing else, has made me a humble student of history and a bold advocate of the decision to choose over and over again not to be satisfied with the notion that what has been must remain.The disparate responses to the Trayvon Martin case that I encountered on the whole from activists and individuals in Black and Jewish communities clarified for me the difference in our country between choosing to act for justice because we are morally compelled and feel it’s the right thing to do versus acting for justice because our loved ones’ survival and our own survival are at stake. Poverty, crime, addiction, and enduring inequities within the education and criminal justice systems of our country increasingly affect the daily survival of people of color in this country. The stakes for ending enduring injustice are often therefore visceral as opposed to hypothetical for people of color.For those who are not heavily targeted by oppression themselves, it is often the experience of seeing, hearing, and empathizing with the personal stories of individuals struggling against oppression that inspires them to find their own entry points into the work of justice. This being true, it is important to note that personal experiences and identification with particular struggles against oppression do not always translate into a decision to enter the realm of political action as a means for affecting society as a whole.The decision to connect personal experience to political action involves an intentional and specific choice — the choice to analyze oppression as a means for developing a social movement to end it. While personal identification with a struggle — for example, the struggle to end the oppression of the poor, of people of color, of women, of targeted religious minorities, of people with disabilities, or of lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer, and intersex people — is meaningful for both members of the oppressed group and those who would ally themselves to support them, this personal identification only becomes political activism when it moves beyond the realm of a subjective life experience and becomes a strategy for fighting inequality. The best activists I have known did not engage in organizing as a matter of expanded self-perception but as a means of addressing concrete, material, and systemic realities of injustice that they knew were a part of a world they needed to change.In my work with young activists, I have found that consciousness of a personal identification with the work of justice (or, in other words, the telling of our justice stories) tends to support and even galvanize interest and participation in political action. Yet this telling of personal stories of connection does not serve anyone when it becomes an end unto itself — especially in cases where assumptions around access, privilege, and power have not been adequately troubled. The unaltered assumption of an interchangeable relationship between one’s “personal” identification with the struggles of the oppressed and a political identification that is based in a substantive understanding of and commitment to systemic change can be counterproductive.In the disparate responses of white and Black communities to the case of Trayvon Martin, the politics of personal identity seem to have, to some degree, thwarted the ability of Black and Jewish social justice activists to share a common cause in working together to end racial profiling, unjust gun laws, and other systemic racial injustices that were called to the forefront by this case. It seems that an overemphasis on the exploration of personal identity without the next and important step of that personal identity being properly contextualized within the politics of power bears the danger of creating a toothless form of activism that salves the conscience but may not essentially mitigate the causes of suffering.There are many things that have been and still need to be said about the tragedy of the Trayvon Martin case. Half a year later, the context of this case still looms with deadly force before us — the access to guns, the laws that protect people with property by encouraging them to use deadly force to protect it, the mass incarceration and disenfranchisement of a tenth of our country’s population, and the related structural racism that one young man’s murder and the resulting trial exposed for the world to see.In the wake of the fiftieth anniversary of the March on Washington, there are several questions that I hope will remain on all of our minds: How, when, and where can we work in solidarity with others to support, celebrate, and protect young black men from being targeted for death in our country? Where do we have (and where are we missing) relationships that can inform and bolster our approach to activism and our ability to work in solidarity with communities of color? How can we increase our relationships across racial lines so that we need not develop our feelings of collective responsibility in “the moment” and in reaction to others’ violent protests of injustice? How can we invest proactively in relationships that will fuel solidarity and see us through the storms of racial divides that must not be sustained? What is the distance between today and the days in our lifetimes when change will truly and finally come? In hope, vision, and commitment to this cause, I stand with you.