By Morris “Rippy” Patton

I don’t know if it was outrage fatigue, sadness, depression or a strong cocktail of all three. I just know that when I put my phone down after watching George Floyd’s body go prone I was empty.

As I’m sure you’ve seen, the killing of Mr. Floyd quickly became national news. The wave felt inescapable, but I personally ran from it at every turn.

“It’s Too Much” is a phrase that I’ve adopted since I heard comedian and social justice advocate DL Hughley repeat it while sobbing on the news while discussing the police related deaths of Alton Sterling and Philando Castille.

In early July of 2016, Sterling was shot dead by police in front of a Louisiana convenience store. The very next day, Castille was shot and killed in Minnesota while sitting in the driver’s seat of his vehicle, with his girlfriend and 4-year-old daughter as the passengers.   

The phrase, “It’s Too Much,” perfectly describes how I felt as a 9-year-old fourth grader when I saw the picture of a young Emmitt Till in his casket. It’s how I felt as a college senior when East Haven Police Officer Robert Flodquist shot and killed 21-year-old Malik Jones just a few miles from my campus.

When Jones was killed, it was an awakening for me as a young black man. It was a stark reminder of the lessons I had been given my whole life: I am a black man; therefore, I am vulnerable to the blue suit.

As the years went by, I got comfortable. An African American man was elected President. We had made it to the mountaintop. Then the dominoes, well, the bodies, began to fall—Trayvon, Jordan, Tamir, Sandra, Oscar, Eric, Walter, Freddie, Sean, Botham.

I met the news of all of these deaths the same way, with anger. I was prepared to do my all to demand justice and accountability for all of them, but George Floyd’s death is different.

At first, I hate to admit it, but I wonder if I was quietly accepting that this is just the way it is, and the way it’s going to stay. I struggled to find something positive. Friends looked to me for level of comfort that I couldn’t give and for guidance that I didn’t have.

On Sunday morning I turned the television on to try to find some inspiration. There it was. Just a few miles away in Waterbury, the people had taken to the streets to peacefully resist a system that is allowing the termination of black lives.

I learned that later that day, in New Britain, they would be doing the same thing. I thought of how powerful it was when I stood in Washington, D.C., with the students from Stoneman Douglas just after the mass shooting took the lives of so many of their loved ones, and I headed out in search of that feeling.

When I arrived at Walnut Hill Park in the outskirts of New Britain’s downtown area, the crowd was sparse at best. Within minutes, that changed. I had the energy and fervor of hundreds of people of all races and ages seeping back into my blood stream.

With a police escort, we marched to police headquarters and took a knee, loudly informing the world that without justice, we cannot have real peace. It felt good, but it wasn’t perfect.

As I left the march, I walked alone back to my car, which was parked on a small side street. As I popped my trunk to put my knapsack away, an officer slowly approached in his squad car.

There I am, a black man—Black Lives Matter t-shirt, nice car—and a licensed gun owner with a weapon in my holster. This could go really badly if he’s had a bad day, I thought.

When he rolled by, I exhaled. That 15-minute roller coaster of emotions was something. I went from chanting “black lives matter” in front of a police station to quietly praying that this guy doesn’t try to take mine.

In fairness, I don’t know that officer, and it’s fair to say that he is probably an ally to the community. In fact, the New Britain Police Dept., outright, deserves kudos for not being passive participants, as I believe officers actually spoke to a unified message as the rally came to a close.

Such is the trauma of sustained vulnerability. It takes a toll.

But that’s what these rallies and protests are for. There is strength in numbers. My favorite sign from the day read, “Whatever happens unto my brother happens unto me.”

Across America, black people and white people, Spanish folks, Asians and Native Americans have formed a chain of resistance and protection for one another. Police chiefs and politicians have come out of their offices and meetings to participate.

For a brief second, I had experienced a moment of grudging acceptance.

At the same time, my human brothers and sisters, prepared to face outright rejection, re-lit my fire.

Let’s work.

Morris “Rippy” Patton is a contributing editor to The Bristol Edition, current chair of the Bristol Democratic Town Committee and 3rd vice president of the Greater Bristol NAACP. He is a graduate of Bristol Central High School and Southern Connecticut State University.