On May 6, 1992, one week after the Rodney King verdict was announced, the Stanford Daily published the following column by then–master’s student Cory Booker. We are republishing it with his and the Daily’s permission.
How can I write, when I have lost control of my emotions? Not Guilty . . . Not Guilty . . . Not Guilty . . . Not Guilty.
Not Shocked—Why Not?
“TURN OFF THE ENGINE! PUT YOUR KEYS, DRIVER’S LICENSE, REGISTRATION AND INSURANCE ON THE HOOD NOW! PUT YOUR HANDS ON THE STEERING WHEEL AND DON’T EVEN THINK OF MOVING!”
Five police cars. Six officers surrounded my car, guns ready. Thirty minutes I sat, praying and shaking, only interrupted by the command, “I SAID, DON’T MOVE!”
Finally, “Everything checks out, you can go.” Sheepishly I asked why. “Oh, you fit the description of a car thief.”
Not Guilty . . . Not Shocked—Why Not?
In the jewelry store, they lock the case when I walk in.
In the shoe store, they help the white man who walks in after me.
In the shopping mall they follow me—in the Stanford shopping mall. Last month I turned and faced their surreptitious security: “Catch any thieves today?”
Not Guilty . . . Not Shocked—Why Not?
September 1991, Tresidder Union, back patio. A woman was struggling with her bags. “Can I help you, ma’am?”
“Oh yes, please . . . WAIT! You’re black.” She hurried away.
Not Guilty . . . Not Shocked.
I’m a black man. I am 6 feet 3 inches tall and 230 pounds, just like King. Do I scare you? Am I a threat? Does your fear justify your actions? Twelve people believed it did.
Black male: Guilty until proven innocent.
I’m a black man. I am 6 feet 3 inches tall and 230 pounds, just like King. Do I scare you? Am I a threat? Does your fear justify your actions? Twelve people believed it did.
Reactions to my kind are justified. Scrutiny is justified. Surveillance is justified. Search is justified. Fifty-six blows . . . Justified.
Justice? Dear God . . .
I graduated from Stanford last June—I was elated. I was one of four presidents of my class—I was proud. In the fall, I received a Rhodes Scholarship—I approached arrogance.
But late one night, as I walked the streets of Palo Alto, as the police car slowed down while passing me, as his steely glare met me, I realized that to him and to so many others I am and always may be a N-----: guilty till proven innocent.
I’m struggling to be articulate, loquacious, positive, constructive, but for the first time in so long, I have lost control of my emotions. Rage, Frustration, Bitterness, Animosity, Exasperation, Sadness. Emotions once suppressed, emotions once channeled, now are let loose. Why?
Not Guilty . . . Not Shocked.
The violence did not surprise me. If I were the powers that be, it would not have taken me three days to call the National Guard. But maybe when you’re disconnected from reality you move slowly.
Poverty, alienation, estrangement, continuously aggravated by racism, overt and institutional. Can you leave your neighborhood without being stopped? Can you get a loan from your bank? Can you be trusted at your local store?
Can you get an ambulance dispatched to your neighborhood? Can you get the police to come to your house? Can you get an education in your school? Can you get a job? Can you stay alive past 25? Can you get respect? Can you be heard?
NO! Not until someone catches on video one small glimpse of your everyday reality and even then, can you get justice?
Our inner cities are stacks of dry leaves and lumber, waiting for a spark. This is but a mere campfire compared to the potential inferno awaiting us. Conditions are worsening and the Rodney King verdict is certainly not the most egregious injustice in our midst.
Why have I lost control of my emotions? Why do my hands shake as I write? Tonight, I have no answers.
Dear God . . . help us to help ourselves before we become our own undoing.
Cory Booker, ’91, MA ’92, is a U.S. senator from New Jersey.
