Sonya Massey, Michael Brown, and the Audacity of Hope

How do you remain hopeful in a world that feels so dark

Michael Brown Courtesy Elcardo Anthony

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A couple of weeks ago, I got on a call with Chris, a young man I mentor, and he was visibly upset. After trying to delay the inevitable, the Illinois police finally released their body cam footage of their fateful encounter with Sonya Massey and police officer Sean Grayson. Chris watched it. Sonya was a 36-year-old Black woman who called 911 for help; the interaction started normal until Sonya got up to turn off a pot of boiling water. It was at this point when Officer Grayson began to “fear for his life.” He took out his gun, pointed it at Sonya, and demanded she put the pot down; Sonya rebuked him “in the name of Jesus,” which seemed to agitate him further. Grayson responded by threatening to shoot her if she didn’t comply. 

With nothing but Jesus on her side, Sandra apologized and got low to protect herself. It was at this moment that Officer Grayson, who had clearly been backed into a corner with nothing protecting him but a gun, badge, taser, partner, bulletproof vest, and at least a hundred-pound difference between the two of them, let off three shots, killing Sonya. As the life left her body, Officer Grayson could be heard saying, “I’m not taking fucking boiling water to the head.” He has since been charged with murder. 

The encounter is heartbreaking, but not new, at least not to me, I have had the dishonor of watching countless videos of Black and Brown people being slaughtered by the police. For a time, many of us thought that putting body cameras on cops would help to reduce senseless deaths and create another mechanism to hold officers accountable. Instead, the footage has turned into sizzle reels for propaganda and trauma porn for the masses. For my sanity, I opted out of watching the footage, choosing instead to focus my energy on making a difference through policy and advocacy. That’s what I have been trying to do, but at that time, something happened.

After years of watching The police execute Black/ Brown people, countless meetings where I and others plead with elected leaders and critical stakeholders for empathy, marching for justice, and trying to work within the system to change our reality, my threshold for pain peaked. I now knew with certainty that Black, Brown, and poor people would be exterminated, locally and abroad. I know that in the aftermath, we will be called “Super Predators, Savages, or members of Hamas,” and those labels will be used to justify our execution. And anyone who dares to speak up will be gaslit, criminalized, or silenced with money and political influence. 

The level of honesty and accountability it would take for us as a country to do right would require deep self-reflection and acknowledgment of our atrocious actions. But if the history of this land is colored by the battles we fought against “monsters” in the name of “freedom,” what would become of us if we were forced to accept that we were the actual villains? I don’t think the powers that be are willing to find out, so I stopped feeling and caring to survive in a field of contradictions.

Or at least I thought I had. The last year has taught me that my powers of compartmentalizing aren’t as effective as I thought because when I was forced to be in space with someone who wasn’t used to experiencing this kind of grief, it was like I was transported to another world. That world isn’t very different than the one we’re in today; it’s just a different place in time, with a different version of me.

In this world, I’m 26, with my entire life ahead of me. I’m at Riverbank Park in Harlem, New York, finishing my third Nutcracker and looking for something new to get into. Just as my friends and I are about to solidify our plans, someone hands me a phone. On it is a picture of Michael Brown lying dead in the street. His body had been there for hours. The police were more concerned with forcing “cooperation” from the growing crowd than giving him even the slightest bit of dignity. I remember looking at the image and feeling like someone had punched me in the gut; I wanted to scream, cry, run, anything to escape what I was feeling at the moment; his death moved me to action.

I think Sonya’s death is the spark that will move Chris into action, and while that thought fills me with excitement, it also makes me sad because I know what is likely down that road. How do I prepare him for a world where he will constantly be forced to justify his and other people’s humanity? What will happen when the “justice” system suddenly finds a way to forgive this officer or the next murderer for their behavior? How do I prepare him for the long, seemingly endless road to justice? I’m unsure if I have the answer to any of those questions.

It’s been ten years since Michael Brown’s murder, a moment that felt so big when it happened I thought the world would change. But here I am, pushing 40, and the conditions that allowed for his life to be taken don’t just remain; in some ways, they may have gotten worse. Those thoughts ran through my mind as I struggled to find the right words to say; after some time, I decided to lean into what was true.

No one person can change the world, and the reality we’re fighting for is not likely one we will live to see, but as long as we love ourselves and are willing to love one another despite our many flaws, there is a chance for change. Brown and Massey are gone; they were failed by a system that runs on fear, greed, and hatred. Many people have been infected with this poison, but as easy as it is to conform, the most radical thing we can do is to break the darkness of the world with the light of our love. No matter how many times we are discouraged, gaslit, or someone attempts to silence us, we must always acknowledge the harm happening, call it out, and demand change. All hope is only lost when everyone stops caring.