Today, Troy Davis was executed by the state of Georgia. Today, I stood in vigil with about 50 other San Franciscans while we awaited the news: would Troy be executed or saved? And, then, he was "saved"--the execution was stayed. To what end? This end. The dead end. The end that shows that we as a country, we as a people, do not believe in innocence, do not believe that our justice system fails, do not believe that if it is possible that it has failed, that it will fail (it does, and it will) we should not execute another human being. Innocent until PROVEN guilty. That is practically an American slogan. We pride ourselves on being a country where doubt is possible. We, a country of believers in doubt. How can we let this happen? How have we let this happen?
In 2009, several students and I organized a protest against Troy Davis' execution. In 2011, I stood in silence, holding the hands of strangers on the hot concrete of September San Francisco, still and strong and sad in the setting sun. All of us. All of us who have nothing in common, know nothing of each other, know nothing of anything but for the small piece of existence we carry around in our minds and hearts and call reality. We all knew that this was wrong. That this man should not be killed. That our system of "justice" had failed. And the news came in: stay of execution granted! Celebration. Brief. The man whose hand I had been holding did not let go, even as all the others did. He was listening to the radio in his earphones, confirming to me that there had been a stay, and he was weeping. Tears were running freely down his cheek, a cheek that had seen 50 years, more, of this sun, worse. He told me that once, when he was driving back from San Quentin, a stay had been granted for someone there on death row... in the same drive, he said, the stay was lifted, the execution proceeded. He did not believe in this as a magical moment for America. Foolishly, I did. Foolishly, I thought that someone had finally recognized that witness' recantations do not a murder conviction make. Foolishly, I continue to believe in the idea of justice, and the fact that the United States of America, the world, human beings generally, have some idea of how to implement it.
So, with what are we left? When the execution is over, when the last breath has left the lungs of a man whose guilt was anything but certain, with what are we left? Are we left only with the sense of the struggle, the importance of it? The blind belief that someday, somehow, this will all be different? That the death penalty will finally be abolished in our arrogantly so-called developed country?
Or something more: Do we hope instead that it will all be different? That the poor will no longer be disadvantaged in this country? That poverty will be equally allocated among racial groups? That education will at least be equivalent for all persons, regardless of their economic status, their neighborhood? That our police officers will dismiss their personal biases in favor of what makes objective sense? That our jurors will do likewise? That our juvenile justice system will treat offenders as the children that they are? That our laws will not encourage harsh penalties for those already disadvantaged by a prior crime, by a difficult upbringing?
What really matters is this: life, and how you live it. When I spoke with friends about the vigil today, every one of them said they were too busy to come. One was getting frozen yogurt instead. "Oh, Troy Davis, I think I've heard about him." This is not my judgment. This is my hope: that those with the means to do something, to speak for for those without voices, to care, do so.
This is it. This is all we get. And that was all Troy Davis had. What inadequate words--'this', 'that'--to encompass life, the living of it, the joy and the sadness and the believing, the pushing, the trying, the hurting, the loving, the aching of watching an old man weep for a stranger and knowing that what he feels is what we should all feel.
Today, and always, what matters is life. Troy Davis' has ended, and the rest of us go on living. To what end? The same, I suppose. But, for what purpose, with what ideas in our minds, with how much love?
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