There are three deaths. The first is when the body ceases to function. The second is when the body is consigned to the grave. The third is that moment, sometime in the future, when your name is spoken for the last time.

― David Eagleman, Sum: Forty Tales from the Afterlives

I went on sabbatical from teaching last year.  It is one of those things that I, a kid of working class parents, could never have imagined when I was younger.  My institution was enabling me to take time off of work to concentrate on my artistic development: to focus on my studio the way that I have been focusing on my students for the past 10 years.  This time was hard-won, precious; I was looking forward to it opening up for me.  I had a lot of ideas that had filled my sketchbooks over the years.  Also, I had bookcases of texts I could not wait to devour.  It had been so long since I had read anything for pleasure that I was so looking forward to curling up with all the tomes I had purchased that work had not allowed me to open.  Also, to be perfectly honest, I was looking forward to getting some rest. I purchased supplies and cleared out my studio for new work.  I was cleaned up my email and finished up school business.  I got to a clutter-free place. I thought about what was possible.

Then Michael Brown happened.

While news channels kept showing his body lying in the street for hours, we found out about John H. Crawford, III.

And then Ezell Ford.  And Dante Parker.  And Kajieme Powell. And more.  And many many more.  Some captured on grainy videos replayed on television and computer screens.

In the studio, I could not stop thinking about this march of death.  I painted almost every day and every day this parade of killing was on my television and radio and social media feed.  Some of the dead became Twitter hashtags.  Some did not, but they were no less dead.  Why were some people more important than others? Did people think that some victims more worthy than others of not being shot to death, or tased to death, or run over, or beaten to death by the state?

I was on sabbatical, so I had time.  Time to create turned into time to think, and I couldn’t think about anything other than death.  I didn’t read any books.  I painted.

It’s summer (July) and I’m at dinner with a friend.  We are in a bistro with televisions all over the restaurant and bar area.  The sound is turned down but the images light the entire place.   The video of Officer Daniel Pantaleo choking Eric Garner to death plays over and over and over interrupted by silent talking heads. I wonder why are they playing this man’s murder on a loop? People eat, drink, laugh, walk about.  No one seems to notice that a man is being choked to death on television.  Then I start to think that maybe they do see it and that it doesn’t bother them.  This is the first time I witness this, a black person being killed on television.  It will not be the last time.  Not by any measure.

Over my sabbatical, I saw black people shot to death on television over and over again.  News casters and pundits would issue verbal warnings that the video they were about the show might upset “sensitive viewers.”  I tried to imagine a viewer that would not be upset about seeing someone like Walter Scott shot to death (or that his killer, Officer Michael Slager, planted evidence on his corpse).  Or Tamir Rice shot to death.  I wondered why they didn’t tell the “insensitive viewers” to hook up their DVRs.  When I am in the studio, the images fill my head.  I jump when cars backfire.

People would ask me how my sabbatical was going.  They would say, “I hope you are taking advantage of this time.”  They would tell me how lucky I was.  They would ask, “What is going on in the studio?”  I wondered if they watched the news at all.  I wondered if they know about what was happening.  I wondered how they felt about these images of black people being killed.  I posted about this stuff on social media and it is ignored for the most part. Ferguson explodes.  Social media does not believe in tears.

In August of 2015, two reporters are shot to death on live television.  Alison Parker and Adam Ward are killed by Vester Lee Flanagan, II who uploaded video of the killing.  Immediately, the television station, Facebook, and social media erupted with requests for people not to view of share the video.  To maintain the dignity of the victims, people begged the public not to watch the video.  It would be a terrible thing to give the killer satisfaction by watching his murder of the reporters.  

I started to wonder why black people are allowed to be killed on television.  Why we are allowed to be transformed from subjects to objects and left to lie in streets for hours?  Why is it acceptable to show the end of a black life on television?

I start to make work about the historical impulse to turn violence against black people into part of our domestic structures.  People continue to ask me what I am doing on sabbatical.  I think of Neruda and I wish I knew Spanish.  (“Come and see the blood in the streets….”)  I decide to make a work about all the people killed by police while I was on sabbatical.  I dismiss the idea as too agitprop.  I talk to my mentors.  One of them tells me, “Make the work.  Just don’t trivialize.”  I work with a friend and learn how to make photographs.  It is harder than I imagined.  I finish this work, Family Pictures.  I show it to a few people.  I finish my sabbatical.  I’ve read few books.  I feel surrounded by ghosts.

I paint everything I think.  I don’t trivialize.  I realize a new body of paintings.  My studio is full of murderers, victims, liars, and accusers.

I return to work in September.  In December, I am hassled and detained by the police.  I write about the experience.  Many people want me to come and talk to groups to “raise awareness.”  I decline.  They seem to be unaware that I would not like to relive a traumatic experience in public. People want me to talk about #BlackLivesMatter.  The college intervenes and offers to handle calls from the press for me. I am deeply grateful because this allows me to concentrate on my job and my students.  CNN calls the college and wants to know if I will talk to Don Lemon.  I tell the school that I will talk to anyone at CNN except Don Lemon.  I get hate mail.

Lisa Tung, the Exhibitions Director asks me what work I want to put in the biennial faculty show.  I decide to make the piece I thought was agitprop.  I call Carmine, my neon fabricator.  I want him to make a sign that mimics police light that spells out what is lost.  I research police killings of unarmed civilians.  I find no central list.  I find no definitive list.  I find no government statistics.  I rely on activist sources.  I rely on The Guardian.  I make the piece.  It is installed in the faculty show.  It is a timeline.  It’s information: date, name, gender, city, state, method of killing. I title it A Partial List of Unarmed African-Americans who were Killed by Police or who Died in Police Custody During my Sabbatical from Massachusetts College of Art and Design, 2014-2015. 

There are 262 names.

A Partial List of Unarmed African-Americans who were Killed by Police or who Died in Police Custody During my Sabbatical from Massachusetts College of Art and Design 2014-2015

People tell me that they look at the wall and measure time.  They lift up the people in their thoughts.  Someone asks me if I am influenced by Maya Lin.  I answer that we all are influenced by Maya Lin.

Someone will say their names and they will be alive a little longer.

On my way to get a burrito before work, I was detained by the police.

I noticed the police car in the public lot behind Centre Street.  As I was walking away from my car, the cruiser followed me.  I walked down Centre Street and was about to cross over to the burrito place and the officer got out of the car.

“Hey my man,” he said.

He unsnapped the holster of his gun.

I took my hands out of my pockets.

“Yes?”  I said.

“Where you coming from?”

“Home.”

Where’s home?”

“Dedham.”

How’d you get here?”

“I drove.”

He was next to me now.  Two other police cars pulled up.  I was standing in from of the bank across the street from the burrito place.  I was going to get lunch before I taught my 1:30 class.  There were cops all around me.

I said nothing.  I looked at the officer who addressed me.  He was white, stocky, bearded.

“You weren’t over there, were you?” He pointed down Centre Street toward Hyde Square.

“No. I came from Dedham.”

“What’s your address?”

I told him.

“We had someone matching your description just try to break into a woman’s house.”

A second police officer stood next to me; white, tall, bearded.  Two police cruisers passed and would continue to circle the block for the 35 minutes I was standing across the street from the burrito place.

“You fit the description,” the officer said. “Black male, knit hat, puffy coat.  Do you have identification.”

“It’s in my wallet.  May I reach into my pocket and get my wallet?”

“Yeah.”

I handed him my license.  I told him it did not have my current address.  He walked over to a police car.  The other cop, taller, wearing sunglasses, told me that I fit the description of someone who broke into a woman’s house.  Right down to the knit cap.

Barbara Sullivan made a knit cap for me.  She knitted it in pinks and browns and blues and oranges and lime green.  No one has a hat like this. It doesn’t fit any description that anyone would have.  I looked at the second cop.  I clasped my hands in front of me to stop them from shaking.

“For the record,” I said to the second cop, “I’m not a criminal.  I’m a college professor.”  I was wearing my faculty ID around my neck, clearly visible with my photo.

“You fit the description so we just have to check it out.”  The first cop returned and handed me my license.

“We have the victim and we need her to take a look at you to see if you are the person.”

It was at this moment that I knew that I was probably going to die.  I am not being dramatic when I say this.  I was not going to get into a police car.  I was not going to present myself to some victim.  I was not going let someone tell the cops that I was not guilty when I already told them that I had nothing to do with any robbery.  I was not going to let them take me anywhere because if they did, the chance I was going to be accused of something I did not do rose exponentially.  I knew this in my heart.  I was not going anywhere with these cops and I was not going to let some white woman decide whether or not I was a criminal, especially after I told them that I was not a criminal.  This meant that I was going to resist arrest.  This meant that I was not going to let the police put their hands on me.

If you are wondering why people don’t go with the police, I hope this explains it for you.

Something weird happens when you are on the street being detained by the police.  People look at you like you are a criminal.  The police are detaining you so clearly you must have done something, otherwise they wouldn’t have you.  No one made eye contact with me.  I was hoping that someone I knew would walk down the street or come out of one of the shops or get off the 39 bus or come out of JP Licks and say to these cops, “That’s Steve Locke.  What the FUCK are you detaining him for?”

The cops decided that they would bring the victim to come view me on the street.  The asked me to wait. I said nothing.  I stood still.

“Thanks for cooperating,” the second cop said. “This is probably nothing, but it’s our job and you do fit the description.  5′ 11″, black male.  One-hundred-and-sixty pounds, but you’re a little more than that.  Knit hat.”

A little more than 160. Thanks for that, I thought.

An older white woman walked behind me and up to the second cop.  She turned and looked at me and then back at him.  “You guys sure are busy today.”

I noticed a black woman further down the block.  She was small and concerned.  She was watching what was going on.  I focused on her red coat.  I slowed my breathing.  I looked at her from time to time.

I thought: Don’t leave, sister. Please don’t leave.

The first cop said, “Where do you teach?”

“Massachusetts College of Art and Design.”  I tugged at the lanyard that had my ID.

“How long you been teaching there?”

“Thirteen years.”

We stood in silence for about 10 more minutes.

An unmarked police car pulled up.  The first cop went over to talk to the driver.  The driver kept looking at me as the cop spoke to him.  I looked directly at the driver.  He got out of the car.

“I’m Detective Cardoza.  I appreciate your cooperation.”

I said nothing.

“I’m sure these officers told you what is going on?”

“They did.”

“Where are you coming from?”

“From my home in Dedham.”

“How did you get here?”

“I drove.”

“Where is your car?”

“It’s in the lot behind Bukhara.”  I pointed up Centre Street.

“Okay,” the detective said.  “We’re going to let you go.  Do you have a car key you can show me?”

“Yes,” I said.  “I’m going to reach into my pocket and pull out my car key.”

“Okay.”

I showed him the key to my car.

The cops thanked me for my cooperation.  I nodded and turned to go.

“Sorry for screwing up your lunch break,” the second cop said.

I walked back toward my car, away from the burrito place.  I saw the woman in red.

“Thank you,” I said to her.  “Thank you for staying.”

“Are you ok?”  She said.  Her small beautiful face was lined with concern.

“Not really.  I’m really shook up.  And I have to get to work.”

“I knew something was wrong.  I was watching the whole thing.  The way they are treating us now, you have to watch them. ”

“I’m so grateful you were there.  I kept thinking to myself, ‘Don’t leave, sister.’  May I give you a hug?”

“Yes,” she said. She held me as I shook.  “Are you sure you are ok?”

“No I’m not.  I’m going to have a good cry in my car.  I have to go teach.”

“You’re at MassArt. My friend is at MassArt.”

“What’s your name?”  She told me.  I realized we were Facebook friends.  I told her this.

“I’ll check in with you on Facebook,” she said.

I put my head down and walked to my car.

My colleague was in our shared office and she was able to calm me down.  I had about 45 minutes until my class began and I had to teach.  I forgot the lesson I had planned.  I forget the schedule.  I couldn’t think about how to do my job.  I thought about the fact my word counted for nothing, they didn’t believe that I wasn’t a criminal.  They had to find out.  My word was not enough for them. My ID was not enough for them.  My handmade one-of-a-kind knit hat was an object of suspicion.  My Ralph Lauren quilted blazer was only a “puffy coat.”  That white woman could just walk up to a cop and talk about me like I was an object for regard.  I wanted to go back and spit in their faces.  The cops were probably deeply satisfied with how they handled the interaction, how they didn’t escalate the situation, how they were respectful and polite.

I imagined sitting in the back of a police car while a white woman decides if I am a criminal or not.  If I looked guilty being detained by the cops imagine how vile I become sitting in a cruiser?  I knew I could not let that happen to me.  I knew if that were to happen, I would be dead.

Nothing I am, nothing I do, nothing I have means anything because I fit the description.

I had to confess to my students that I was a bit out of it today and I asked them to bear with me.  I had to teach.

After class I was supposed to go to the openings for First Friday. I went home.

There is a black-owned business in my neighborhood. Over the past year, I would safely say that I frequent this place a few times a week.  I would never assume that I am friends with the owner, but we are more than cordial. We’ve talked about his kids, my goals in life, politics.  We’ve exchanged more than a few laughs and we have had moments of agonized connection when discussing the current political moment.

This man has several employees, including at least one from Mexico.

So the owner, his employee, and I were talking about the end of my sabbatical, my return to teaching, and a funny thing that happened with a student. Two other people, a man and a woman, also were in the establishment and could over hear us. As I was turning away the man overhearing us spoke up.

“See these young people are so entitled now.  This is one of the reasons I like Trump.”

I turned and simply looked at him. I could see the owner and the employee from the corner of my eye. I felt the air thicken in the room.

“Yeah,” said the woman. “I love what he says and I love that it pisses people off.”

The two of them then started to talk loudly about Trump.  The cited what they called his disdain for “political correctness” and his lack of concern for others opinions.  They liked how he said what needed to be said. They had the almost drunken belligerence of someone taking up too much room at a party-a party they had managed to crash.

These two people, both white, felt very comfortable coming into a black-owned business, one with a multi-ethnic staff and clients, and professing their pleasure with the statements and conduct of a man who professes some of the most vile and hateful rhetoric in American life.  They filled the place with their thick and stupid laughter. They looked at us, the owner, the employee, and myself, as if we too dumb to get the joke.

When people talk about the indignities of every day racism, this is what they mean.  What kind of person walks into someone’s place of business and insults them to their face?  The kind that knows that there will be no consequences.

The owner said, “this is a politics free zone.” And the two white people had a final laugh. The man said, “I just knew I’d get a rise out of you.”  The woman turned to the Mexican employee, who resumed working with her.

I looked at the owner. I thought about his kids.  I thought about how he told me how hard he worked to build his business and what it meant to him and his wife. I thought about how he had clients who felt completely entitled to come into his work place and insult him and his employees just because they thought it would be fun. I thought about his employee who now had to work with a woman who told a group of people that she believes Trump when he says that Mexicans are criminals, drug dealers, and rapists. I remembered with a mouth full of hot blood that I was in someone’s hard earned business, and in an immigrant’s place of employment.

I said to white man, “I want to continue liking you, so I’m going to forget this happened.”  He laughed and I smiled the “go fuck yourself smile” I learned from my mother.

Later, I went over to the owner.

“I’m so sorry that happened.”

“Thanks, Steve.”

“What the actual fuck?”

“I know, I know. And there’s a man from Mexico right in front of them, too.”

“I was about to tell them both about themselves.  I was about to say something and then I saw your face.  I don’t want to go off on these white people and fuck up your money, man.”

“I appreciate that. This is my livelihood. And the fact is, today isn’t even the worst of it.  You’d be amazed.”

I shook his hand.  And left.

A few days later, the woman was there and the Mexican employee was working with her.  He was kind and encouraging, present and supportive.  As I passed them, she said hello to me.  I stopped and looked at her.  In my mind’s eye, I could see her face, drunk and stupid with laughter.

I said nothing.

Dear Senators Warren and Markey:

I am sick to my soul at the news that two pieces of vile, oppressive legislation from Texas and New York have been reinstated by the DC Court of Appeals. The notion that the abortion restrictions and “stop and frisk” being reinstated troubles me, but what troubles me more is that these decisions are being made by a court with vacancies that are being maintained for clearly partisan reasons.

The Republican Party in this country has outed itself as a group of “know nothing” ideologues whose sole purpose is to undo the legitimacy of the President. This strategy is based in the deep seated racism that is now clear as this hallmark of that party. You may disagree with my assessment of some of your colleagues, but that is the only conclusion I can reasonably determine from their actions. They have tried on stop every thing the President has tried to do for the country. They have undermined him at the expense of the safety of the nation. They have pandered to the sickest elements of racism and misogyny in American life.

Please, Senators, the courts have traditionally been the saving grace, the final protection for the disenfranchised. They need to be balanced, fair and accessible. The court vacancies, a continuation of the government shutdown, are another attempt to undo the democratic election of a president. It is seditious and unworthy of the oath of a United States Senator. This cannot stand. The women of Texas, the black and Latin people of New York need your courage. We are suffering, Senators. Please, act on our behalf.

I sent this message to all of the menswear designers who have their clothing at Riccardi, Boston.

Dear Madam/Sir:

I am an artist who lives and works in Boston. Recently, I opened a solo exhibition at the Institute of Contemporary Art/Boston titled there is no one left to blame. It has been very well received and as a result, I have had many speaking engagements. These have required additions to my wardrobe and because I love your clothes, I went to one of your local stockists, Riccardi on Newbury Street, to make some purchases for my lecture at the museum scheduled for 19 September.

To say that the staff was rude would be an understatement. The two people in menswear were clearly busy and so engaged in their own conversation that they barely managed a strained response to my hello, but they did watch me walk around the store. I was going to ask for some information but they resumed talking to each other. I walked upstairs to womenswear and spoke with a woman working on a laptop. I said hello and told her I was interested in suits and skirts for men. She told me that she did not work there.

At this point, a man came upstairs and the woman at the laptop told me he worked at the store. I said hello and repeated my request about suits and skirts for men. He replied, “Yeah, that’s downstairs. This is the women’s department.” I advised him that I was aware of that and that I wanted to know what was available in menswear. He replied, “It’s downstairs,” and just stared at me. I thanked him and told him that I would find it myself.

I left the store. I went to Barneys.

I am a 50 year old African American man and I have lived in Boston for a long time. I know when I am not welcome in a store. I know when people assume that I am going to steal something or that I do not have enough money to shop there. I know when sales people want to help me and when they don’t. I assure you that I will never shop at Riccardi again.

I am not writing to the manager of Riccardi because I don’t care about them. I am writing to you to let you know what type of store carries your wonderful clothing. In my opinion, your clothes are too beautiful to be sold by such an ugly retailer.

Thank you for your hard work,
Steve

Sent to Balmain, Boris Bidjan Saberi, Comme des Garçons, Dior, Dolce & Gabbana, Dsquared2, EN NOIR, ENVISU, Giuseppe Zanotti, Givenchy, Julius, J.W. Anderson, Lanvin, Mastermind Japn, Moncler, Nighborhood Japan, ROAR, Vivienne Westwood, and KTZ.