My Visit to George Floyd’s Memorial
i wake up in the sunroom of my friend K.’s home in so-called Minneapolis, Minnesota. Around me are various potted plants soaking up the rising summertime sun, aloes and cacti dripping out of glass vases and ceramic pots. i’m lying on my thick green comforter that i’ve folded and laid upon the floor as a makeshift bed. The morning sun is heating up the sunroom, and i’m already sweating when i arise to perform my morning stretches.
My friend R. is sleeping on a red overstuffed couch in the room adjacent. He’s from Milwaukee, a thin young white guy with short blond hair and bright blue eyes. We met down in New Orleans while volunteering at an organization that mails books to incarcerated people. It’s called Louisiana Books 2 Prisoners for anyone interested in getting involved. R. is a police and prison abolitionist that cracked a squat back in New Orleans, does an enormous amount of mutual aid work. Comrades like him can be hard to come by.
After stretching, i walk into the kitchen and help myself to fresh bread slathered in butter and some spaghetti sauce that K. had cooked the night previous. Always fun to scrounge around a friend’s kitchen for breakfast, peeking into their fridge, asking, “Should i eat this? Will they hate me for eating that?” Y’all know what i’m talking about.
R. gets up and joins me in the kitchen, and we start scheming our plans for the day. R. mentions going to Powderhorn Park to help out the encampment of houseless people currently there. Later on, R. wants to head to Seward Cafe to prepare and bag up meals for distribution to houseless folks throughout Minneapolis. “That all sounds good, but there’s something else we could do today before all that”, i say to R. He looks at me and nods, knowing already what i’m suggesting we do. Since we got into town we’ve been discussing going to the memorial to George Floyd that stands at the site of his murder, in front of the Cup Foods at the corner of 38th St and Chicago Ave.
R. and i grab our bags and throw them into the backseat of Coquille, my old Camry. R. is talking about all the mutual aid work that he wants to do as i pull out a paper handout that i received at George Floyd’s funeral in Houston. The handout has a photo of Floyd on the front, a portrait of him standing erect and serene, his palms pressed together as if in prayer. On the back of the handout is a note of gratitude from Floyd’s family, thanking the receiver for attending. i look at the photo for a few moments, then pass it to R., who studies it closely as i pull into drive and start gliding down residential streets. We’re silent as we start the short drive to the memorial, our customary music and loud conversation on pause.
We park near the corner of 38th St and 10th Ave, the street lined with old oaks and mulberry trees. When we get out the car, i decide to go to the memorial barefoot, keeping my eyes on the ground ahead of me as i walk. Various detached houses line the street, the kinds of houses made in decades past for middle-class families. Some have gardens lining the sidewalk, i even spy a free book exchange in front of one home. R. and i walk down the street and round the corner, which sets us on a direct path to the bodega. Cup Foods is the corner store that Floyd was shopping at where one of the cashiers called the police over a counterfeit $20 bill. As R. and i approached, we saw a concrete divider blocking the road from traffic. As we walk down E 38th St to the intersection of Chicago Ave, we see a giant metal fist rising into the sky from the middle of the intersection. The fist is ringed by flowers, and flying atop the fist is the red, black and green flag of the Republic of New Afrika, fluttering proudly in the breeze.
R. and i first pause to look at the mural of George Floyd that’s painted on the side of the building that holds Cup Foods. There are blue silhouettes of protesters inscribed within the large orange letters composing his name. After a few moments there, R. and i turned to walk toward the giant metal fist. i was staring at the fist and flag when i hear crying behind me.
i turn around and see a father with his two sons, the older looked around 10 while the younger son looked 6 or 7. All three of them were white. It was the older son who was crying, tears streaming down his reddened face as he choked back sobs. His father held him as he wept, the younger son standing by as their father consoled the elder son. It is a sick system that provokes children to shed tears over murder victims. But there was also a beautiful solidarity i beheld in seeing this moment, something i’d never seen before: a white child mourning the death of a black man murdered by the police. Another poignant aspect of the moment was the father hugging and consoling his boy, rather than telling him, “be a man, stop crying, keep a stiff upper lip”. Seeing anti-black racism and toxic masculinity challenged by that boy’s honest tears and that father’s loving support give me some measure of hope.
From the intersection i walk down Chicago Ave, passing the Cup Foods on my right. Past the entryway to the Cup Foods is the memorial itself. There is the outline of a human being lying down at the exact place where he was murdered, surrounded by candles, poems, and flowers, so many flowers.
i pass the memorial, continuing down the middle of Chicago Ave, feeling bits of gravel beneath my feet, on the lookout for broken glass. “Why’re you walking barefoot? You’re gonna cut yourself”, says an older black man, a wry smile on his face. “i’ve got my eyes peeled, don’t worry about me”, i respond, trying to convey that i appreciate his concern. “If you need them, the medics are over there”, he says as he points to two individuals with red crosses affixed to their chests sitting in folding chairs across the street. My benefactor passes me on his way and i continue walking gingerly, extra alert for shards.
About halfway down the block and sitting in the middle of Chicago Ave is a small sign reading “Rest In Power”, surrounded by a semicircle of flowers. In front of the sign are inscribed the words “Justice For” in teal lettering with a dark yellow underline. Beneath the yellow underline is George Floyd’s name in teal, followed by Jamar Clark, then another name, and another name...and another. i continue down the street away from the memorial, the names upside-down from my vantage point. The names also change color as i walk. i see Sandra Bland in sunflower yellow, Breonna Taylor and Alton Sterling in dark pink, Walter Scott and Trayvon Martin in solid red. There are far more names that i don’t recognize: Brian Quinones, Hakim Littleton, Dana Fletcher. The names go on and on, dozens of them coloring the middle of Chicago Ave, all the way to the end of the block.
i turn around after reaching the end of the block and see the dozens of names laid out before me, growing smaller as the street stretches away. It occurs to me to download an app to keep count, like when one keeps track of how many people enter or exit a club. i download Counter+ and start slowly walking forward, saying each name as i click the counter. Ten names become 20, which become 50, which rise to 100 and keep growing. When i reach the final name, i say “George Floyd”, and click the counter for the 157th time.
One hundred and fifty-seven names. i saw names that looked Afro-American, Indigenous, Latino, Middle Eastern, South Asian, East Asian. Perhaps there were even some names belonging to Euro-Americans on that long, horrifying list. Black Americans make up the vast majority of those 157 names, illustrative of the white supremacy and anti-black racism that are foundations of American policing. The presence of names of non-black Americans just goes to show that no one is safe from being murdered with impunity by armed agents of the State. For every one of those 157 names, there are dozens, if not hundreds of victims left unnamed by that colorful thanatographic registry.
After contemplating the list of names, i spent some time walking around the memorial area, snapping photos of the Cup Foods, the Speedway gas station covered in graffiti, the fist surrounded by flowers. Black residents of the neighborhood are taking visitors on tours, educating outsiders like myself on the history of the neighborhood, the events of May 25th and its aftershocks. In their grief, black residents are carrying out this labor of popular education and facilitating the hard conversations that must happen if there is ever to be peace and reconciliation on this stolen land. There still exists the possibility, however slim, that the events of May 25th and what came after may lead to a durable shift in culture and a raising of the collective consciousness.
Crouching barefoot on the concrete, R. rejoins me and asks if i’m ready to leave. We start walking back to my car, and i stop to glance once more at the Republic of New Afrika flag flying higher than i’ve ever seen it fly before.
