When Youth Departs…
My English name is KeSean and my Hebrew name is Nahshon but most people call me Sean (Shon). My spirit was born in Greenwood, MS where most of my family was held captive since being brought to America, it is also the place where the phrase “Black Power” was first uttered by Stokely Carmichael on June 16, 1966. My body, however, was born in the “City of big shoulders”, the “Windy city”, you know, the same city where Fred Hampton gave the famous speech where he said, “you can jail a revolutionary, but you can’t jail the revolution!” in 1969, Chicago, IL.
February 10th, 1995 is a day that I will never forget. I was a 16 years old boy and it is the day that I was arrested and charged with three felony counts of aggravated battery on a police officer. The night started like any other weekend, My mom went to stay with a friend downtown that night and asked me if I was going anywhere and I told her no. My brother, who was a year and a half older than me and his best friends Gee and Jay were hanging out at the mall. They called the house a couple of times and asked me to come out, I kept saying no then they would find a new pay phone at a different location and call back. After about two hours, I finally I conceded my arguments and decided to go out with them.
The plan was simple drive around and see the sights until it was time to go pick Gee’s mom up from work then go home. On the way to pick her up, Gee’s car was hit in the driver front quarter. We immediately came to a stop and the driver of the other vehicle parked in the street on an angle as to keep us from moving. Then, the driver of the other car, who was clearly under the influence got out and my life changed forever. When he approached our car, he told Gee to give him his license, Gee replied with, “you hit me!” To which he promptly returned, “Give me your license or else!” Gee asked, “Or what? You gonna shoot me?” The man opened his jacket to reveal a .40 caliber handgun and stated, “If I need to!” Gee asked the man, “who are you that I should be giving you my license, because you just hit me?” The man pulled out his wallet and said I’m the police. My brother then told Gee to give him the license because he hit us so we were good. Gee reluctantly gave the man his license. The man returned to his personally owned vehicle and sped off.
Just to paint the picture, at the time Chicago was suffering from an insane amount of people posing as police officers, stopping cars and victimizing people. We assumed that because this dude was not performing in the manner of a Chicago City police officer he was a fake and our conversation shifted from being frazzled by the accident, to being angry that he was on the street, to finally feeling excited knowing that we are about to aid the city in taking him off the street. As we headed northbound on Lake Shore Drive the man was weaving in and out of traffic and at the next light he made a U-turn and headed back southbound on the opposite side of the street. Once we made it to the light, we followed suit. The man pulled into a Mobil gas station at 67th and Jeffery. We pulled in behind him and before we could map out a plan, I was out of the car and headed toward his car. I came around the front of the car and he instantly popped out and instructed me to back up, I told him all I wanted was Gee’s license and then we would leave and their insurance could handle the accident because we were late going to get Gee’s mom (teenage thought), little did I know that I was about to lose my freedom and become the latest victim of the pipeline to prison.
Gee was approaching him from behind and I walked back around the front of his car toward the passenger side as he was messing with his waistband. Several years later, Gee told me that the man put the gun on my chest and made me back up. So when I saw him messing with his waistband, what I actually saw was him putting the gun up. The man swung at Gee and he ducked and swung back hitting the man in the face. At this point it is a fight between Gee and this fake police officer. As the fight made its way to the street I tried getting in the gas station door to no avail and I began beating on the window of the service station asking the attendant to call the real police so we can get this guy off the street. When I took a step back and looked toward the street, I could see Gee being mercilessly pistol whipped with the butt of the man’s handgun. He was already on the ground bleeding profusely from the head and I watched him strike Gee at least 5–7 more times. My brother ran at the man in an attempt to save Gee’s life and kicked the man causing an injury to his upper eye. The man pointed the gun at my brother and I screamed no, which caused him to turn toward me and allowed my brother to run across the street to the BP gas station.
I returned to the window and pleaded with the attendant and she replied again, “I’m not getting involved in that!” My thought was to neutralize the threat so I ran toward this angry man with a gun so he didn’t kill my friend. When I got close, he pointed the gun at me and said if I come one step closer to him, he would shoot me in the face. I ran across the street as he continued his assault on Gee’s head with his gun. When I got in the gas station my brother gave me a hug and I told him I thought the dude was about to kill Gee. He replied with OMG where is Jay. Seconds later Jay came into the gas station and said,” yall finna go to jail”, I asked how, then explained to him that if this guy was the police, he wouldn’t have been under the influence driving and he would have performed in a professional manner and not left the scene of an accident. The next thing I know is there were blue and red lights everywhere.
Feeling that it was safe to go across the street since the REAL police had arrived, we made our way. I ran toward a female detective explaining the story and she told me to turn around so she could check me first, I complied and she kicked me in the back while wearing cowboy boots. When I hit the ground, she stood on my neck and told me to calm down and wait for them to cuff me. I wiggled and squirmed feeling like my life was slipping away while screaming, “Help I can’t breathe!” while she applied her weight down for what seemed like an eternity. I was cuffed and promptly brought to my feet and officer B, tightened the cuffs on my wrist bones and locked them. If you have never been cuffed before, just know that they cuff you on the wrist so that any movements with your lower arms would cause you to feel as though your wrists are going to break, which typically deters any resisting FYI. As we approached the police cruiser I saw Gee and Jay in the back seat and I asked about my brother who was in another car. I was told to shut up and officer B attempted to put me in vehicle. I tried to duck to make it into the car, but he slammed my head against the door frame and screamed stop resisting! Once I was in the car we started our arduous drive to the police precinct.
During the drive officer Berry informed us that the guy we thought was a fake police officer, was an actual officer whose father was a high raking lieutenant and the officer’s badge allowed him to pose as a member of any precinct in the city. When we got there, the door opened and officer B’s voice commanded me to get out. When I put my foot on the ground, he slammed the door on my leg. Afraid, I pulled my leg back in the car and started begging for him to not hit me. The voice stated again for me to get out of the car, reluctantly I placed my foot on the ground again and attempted to stand up, as soon as my head came out of the car and cleared the door I was punched in the face. I won’t lie, I saw stars similar to cartoons when they experience a head injury. I fell right back into the seat onto the cuffs which made it feel like my wrists were both broken. He then pulled me out of the car and held my arms over my head in a fashion to cause pain. When I looked at the building there were so many police people vying for the opportunity to look at us and tell us what they were going to do to us. Once inside we were brought into what looked like an interrogation room. An officer appeared in front of us and said, “Y’all can leave the cuffs on and fight one on one, or we could take the cuffs off, and take off our belts and we can fight two (police) on one. What y’all wanna do?” I, not knowing the seriousness of what is happening, opted for the cuffs to be off and the officer chuckled. If you probably remember Gee is still bleeding from his forehead with blood all over his shirt, so now it is beginning to seem weird to me.
They lined us up basically shoulder to shoulder, with my brother on the far left and me on the far right with Gee and Jay in the middle facing a cinder block wall. One officer, starting at my brother hit us in the back of the legs with the nightstick, causing us to fall to our knees. They then slammed our faces into the wall, starting with my brother and came back and punched all of us on the right side of the face starting with me. When they hit Jay, he began to whimper, which my uncle told me was a no-no and I started giggling, which made my brother and Gee giggle too! (Years later I would find out from a therapist that this was the beginning of a state of delirium for me that brought on by a traumatic event). The officers then began to make jokes about Jay because we were laughing him and being soft which is probably the reason my uncle told us that crying was a no-no. There was a voice that said, “these three going to the county (jail) and the young one probably about to go home.” He then instructed the older three that if they had any valuables, they should give them to me to take home. So, they gave me their pagers and their chains. I thought the police had turned the corner and were just being nice, little did I know they were just stamping my pipeline to prison ticket.
They moved me into a holding cell by myself still handcuffed and every few minutes outside the door I would hear someone ask what I was in for and when my charges were explained the door would open and I would get beat on, while the officer asked me if I liked fighting police. Every single time I would attempt to tell my side of the story I would get pummeled. They allowed my brother to call my grandparents and whenever I asked to make a call they would tell me no. My grandparents lived approximately one and a half hours from the station and I got beat until they made it. During the waiting period, they began to inventory my items, one white lighter, one bundle of tootsie roll pops, three pagers and two gold chains, to which one officer replied,” you know he gotta be a dope dealer and he like to fight the police.” I screamed out, “I don’t sell drugs and I didn’t do anything!” The door to the cell opened up and he just started punching me in the face while telling me that he didn’t ask for my opinion.
Shortly thereafter I could hear my granny’s voice. They told her she couldn’t see me and she had to wait until after I spoke with the state’s attorney. When the state’s attorney came in the room, I had informed her that the police were beating me and had not read me my rights. When I began to explain my side of the story, she told me that police already gave her all of the information that she needed and I didn’t have to explain anything. She then told me I was remanded to the custody of the State of Illinois Department of Juvenile Justice and that I would not be going home. They let my grandparents in the room and we spoke briefly and they were ushered quickly out of the room. I then heard in the hallway them tell my grandparents that juveniles do not get the opportunity to bond out and based on the state’s attorney’s recommendation that I would not be going home. As they were escorted toward the place to pay the bond for my brother, I could hear my granny’s crying becoming more and more faint, it was at that moment that I literally listened to the hope of being saved fade away.
A voice shouted, “thirty minutes until transport,” it seemed to have invigorated the hope of these arresting officers that they had more time to teach me a lesson. I was again made to go into a different holding cell where I was attacked until their arrival. When the transport officer arrived, he asked about my charges and I heard the cell door open, and as soon as he came in he just started punching me in my face and body and warning me of what happens when you fight the police. He told the other officers that I was resisting arrest so he had to use force to subdue me as he walked me out of the holding cell. While we were walking down the hall headed toward his car, he questioned what my parents did for a living and I explained that my mom was an adult educator. When he asked about my father, I replied that he didn’t live with us but the last time I heard he was a police officer. He immediately started checking every door in the hallway and finally found an open holding cell. He pushed me in tightened my cuffs down and started relentlessly pummeling me about the face and body. He was hitting me so hard I was fading in and out of consciousness. I can’t remember the entire event but I remember him hitting me so violently and persistent that he started sweating profusely. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally completed his assault and dragged me to his car. We were driving to the Juvenile/ Teen detention center and he pulled over after a series of questions that he didn’t like my answers to and started beating me again.
When we finally arrived and walked in the door and I heard a young voice say, “that’s the guy that I was telling y’all about. He beat up the police!” As he delivered this anecdote, every face in the room turned toward me and a deep voice replied, “thank you for joining us, I can’t wait ’til we get upstairs!” I had already seen the face that he was making for the past few hours so I knew that I would face punishment. My intake group was comprised of about 12 Black males ranging in age between 5 and 16. Yes, a 5-year old who was there with his older brother who was 7. The beating that I was promised downstairs was delivered swiftly when I arrived in the housing unit. It continued every day that I was in the custody of the State of Illinois Department of Corrections. While being there, I began to notice how the system used the 1994 crime bill to vilify young Black males. I was arrested on a Friday, we were only allowed to shower on Saturday and Sunday. There were no towels, so we were made to use our sheets to dry off. I realized that if you don’t shower on weekdays, which is when court happens, then you will show up to court smelling bad and looking disheveled which aids in the painting the picture of what a criminal looks like. I fought this case for 6 months during my junior year of high school. I couldn’t hang out with my friends or even build relationships with new people as my future as a free person was in jeopardy.
After months of agony my lawyer finally won an argument that allowed for us to have a bench trial. He figured letting the judge decide my fate, was a better opportunity than having a jury listen as the state painted me to look like a juvenile delinquent. On the day of my trial we were approached by the state’s attorney who offered me a blind plea. Without even asking what it was, I asked my lawyer to go ahead and take it. I had heard of people pleading out to charges to avoid the promise of extreme prison time and because of my experience, I figured that nobody would believe my story so I faced what would seem like a million years anyway. He looked at me and said sternly, “No!” We entered the courtroom as a team, my lawyer, my mom and my grandparents. I watched as the judge’s face filled with bewilderment as she read the character description provided to her by the state which was followed by her casual glance at my family. The look itself was almost an indictment on the system. As if to say, “how could this young man be a callous, drug-dealing, police assaulting felon, and his family is here in support?” She listened as the state presented its case, she asked tough questions of both counselors and wouldn’t allow for unfair character assassinations when the state’s attorney made judgements about my lifestyle based on the fact that I grew up in a single parent household with no father.
In the end the judge concluded that I hadn’t done anything wrong and that the police targeted me in the group because, when adults fight the police, it is a misdemeanor and considered most times as a fight between consenting adults. But, as a juvenile it equates to at least one felony and it paints the picture of a juvenile delinquent which is exactly the language you need to impose harsher sentencing. When the arguments closed and the judge read her ruling, the state’s attorney told my lawyer that the blind plea would have been for eight years for each count to run concurrently and no early release, which means I would have been remanded to juvenile custody until the age of 21 and then transferred to adult prison until the age of 24.
This morning I woke up with an additional thoughts. I fought my case from home after being released to the custody of my mom. There were several young men there who were not going home and who were fighting cases from inside the walls because the state would not let them go home to their parents or there were no parents to go home to because their behavior had been criminalized and were fighting their own legal situations. If we want to fix the system, we must change the way that families are depicted and provide resources that can change people’s lives. The difference between fighting from behind the walls versus from the street, while you do feel like you could go, the hopelessness ain’t there which can make you plead to a bad deal. That situation forced me to look at the world differently and my youth departed with those first few blows.
If you ever ask why do I as an American Descendant of Slavery, scream Black Lives Matter at the top of my lungs whenever I get a chance, just know it is for the countless cousins, that didn’t have the opportunity to have a lawyer to tell them not to take a plea or a judge who has the courage to listen to reason and most importantly for every one of them that lost their lives because the police were not prepared to show compassion for human life. I thank you for allowing me to share my Torah with you. I love you all and there is nothing you can do about it! And in the words of my ancestors, Shabbat Shalom!
