 Schizophrenia Americana by Marcus Gardley. A black man sits on a bare stage, rocking back and forth. He is probably schizophrenic. His clothes are stained and worn out. It looks like remnants of an army uniform, or perhaps he was a mailman. He is unkempt, mumbles to himself. Around his arms lies a spanking brand new American flag. The contrast to his appearance and the flag is startling. He speaks. He becomes a variety of characters. His voice changes as does his body. He is the voice of the country, the human zeitgeist. This is his diagnosis. Older black man. I saw it. Saw the whole thing from my window. Saw it and haven't told nobody. It ain't edifying. We'll take it to my grave. We'll die with it in my throat like a terminal cancer. Won't tell a soul. Well, maybe just you since you're here. As long as you don't tell nobody. I tell you now, but only because I can't breathe. Got to tell somebody so I can get this way off my chest, this burden. Can you hold it for me for a breath? Here it is. The whole truth from every side. Older black woman. That boy Brown wasn't bothering nobody. He was holding a cigarette, just being a boy and black and young and that cop, that officer, gonna drive up and get on that boy and his friend for walking in the streets. Now it used to be when I was growing up, white folks didn't want us on the sidewalk, especially when a white woman passed, but now they don't want us in the streets. It make you feel like some folks don't want us on the planet. So the brown boy tells the cop, the officer, he doesn't give an F. Woo, the miles on these chairing. He says he doesn't give an F and the officer, the cop gets mad and swears his car around to block Brown and his friend. Then Brown slams the car door shut on the officer and goes to punch in the officer through the car window. That's when I knew this wouldn't end well. A gun goes off. I think the brown boy was shot, so he walks away from the car, but I didn't see no blood, not yet. But then the cop, the officer, gets out of the car and Brown stops. Now this was the strange thing. Brown hears the officer get out of the vehicle and he stops. He just stops there and you can see on that boy's face that he is afraid. That brown boy, he looked like something to turn around, told him to turn around to save his own life so he does. Brown turns around and charges at the officer and the cop can't see the fear in Brown's eyes so he reels that boy's body with enough bullets to spark a fourth of your lawyer. Oh Lord, I screamed. Now if you hear the cop tell it, he'll tell you that that boy looked like a monster, but I'm here to tell you that that boy looked like a boy. But the officer couldn't see no boy, not really see him, because he couldn't see past that boy's skin. He made that boy into a monster because he was afraid. In fact, fear made fools of both these men, but one got put into the dirt and the other, he got wings. Asian American man. I saw it, I saw the entire thing unfold. You see, my shop is across the street and well I'll be frank, although my name is Odell, I have put in quite a few complaints to the police department about people laudering there in my business. I sell shoes, my shoes, four shines. You should come by, try on up here. You see, me and a few of the other local business owners on the street are trying to attract a certain type of clientele, and well, you know, nobody's racist here. We're live on Staten Island. This is the shit crack in New York City. People only come here when they get lost on the way to the Statue of Liberty, so you know, cut us some slack. I mean, I didn't know Mr. Gunner well, I know his face, and no, they shouldn't have put him in the chokehold, so I'm pissed about that, you know? But these guys, these officers are good people. I mean, let's tell the whole truth. What happened was bad, but we're not bad people. Now, like I said, I saw it. I saw them get testy with Mr. Gunner for selling his cigarettes, and you can tell they're about to take him down because it's a hell of a lot of them, officers, and they're getting closer to him. It's kind of like the Discovery Channel when the lions circle around the antelopes, so they jump on him, and it's hard to watch. I mean, you've seen the video. It sends chills every time. But what I see, and this is the strange thing, I see Mr. Gunner reach his hand out, and I know he's not like resisting arrest, it's like he sees something and he's trying to grab it. He just reaches his hand out, like he wants to grab a hold of this one thing. At first I thought he needs something so he doesn't fall, but even after they have him on the ground, I still can see his hand reaching out, and I think, oh, maybe he wants to show them that his hands are empty, but they are still choking him, and then you hear him say, you know, because I'm outside of the shop, but it's boring, and you can hear him. Well, we all heard him say, beg in that raspy voice, but he can't, and even after I realized that he's probably dead, I can still see his hand reaching. His whole body is just lying there, frozen, but the hand is reaching. Something must have told him to reach out to save his own life, but they couldn't see it. See him reaching. How could they not see him? White male police officer. People don't see what we see, okay? That's the luxury you have, you. You don't have to see. You don't wear the blue so you don't know. How could you? For all the people that get killed, unfortunately, accidentally by us, by cops. For all the people that we hurt, we save hundreds, thousands, hundreds of thousands, but there are no medals for that. You wanna have a real discussion, let's break this down to its bone. You don't see all the fallen soldiers, the officers that we lay to rest year after year who die in the line of duty, who die trying to serve and protect you. No one mourns them, but there's widows and children and us who wear the blue. But we don't get a march in the street. We don't get t-shirts made for us. No athlete is wearing our names on the court. We face bullets every other fucking day and you're trying to tell me because of a few times we stumble, you wanna march on our necks. I got a job to do, that's how I see it. I got a situation to assess. And my number one goal is to get out alive and get my partner out alive. These thugs, these men, they try us. Y'all need to fucking understand, we're not playing. You need to do what we tell you to do and if you resist, if you put your dick on the fucking table, so will we. That's procedure and we come hard, much harder than you. We pack heat because this is war and we owe it to ourselves, to our families to live. So if we use excessive force, it is for our own protection. We are in fact serving you. I'm not saying what those officers did was right cause like I can't really comment on what I really feel about that shit because at the end of the day, those are men of my brothers, but look, bottom line. No, we're not seeing you. We're not seeing these men. Is it because they're black? Yeah, maybe, but that doesn't make us racists. Hell, the whole fucking country is scared of them. Look at the way they treat the fucking president because he's black. This country is sick, been sick, and we thought electing him would make us well, but if you ask me, it was just a bandaid placed around on a war wound. Now the war wound is seeping blood, folks are in pain, but I still gotta do my job. I don't get paid to use my heart. I get paid to protect it. White woman. My African-American friend is named Keisha. And yes, that's like really her name, so I'm not being culturally insensitive or whatever. She's Keisha Renee Jackson. And like she unfriended me on Facebook yesterday, and I'm really distraught behind it. Not because she unfriended me, although like really Keisha, you only got like 70 friends, girls, so like you can't really afford to lose anybody right now, but whatever. But like, that's not why I'm really upset. It's like, because I was commenting on her post because Keisha like always had these really deep posts about her culture, and I know she was really upset about the verdict or indictment or what I have here. This was I. So she puts on her post that she can't breathe, and I respond, neither can I. And she responds, yes you can, because you're white-bicking. I'm like, okay, what does my skin have to do with my not being able to breathe? I can't breathe, Keisha. I'm an ally. And then Keisha replies, bye Felicia, and just unfriends me. And I'm like, first of all, my name is not Felicia Keisha. And second, I'm like, what did I say to upset her? Sometimes I feel like, no matter what I do, I'm like walking on eggshells around her, you know? It's like, I'm constantly trying to convince her that I'm not a racist, which of course makes me look like a racist, because I'm always over apologizing for shit. So one day, we're out buying makeup at the Mac counter, and I tell Keisha that I think the makeup she wants to buy is too light for her skin. And when I get halfway through the sentence, I realize that what I'm saying is kind of fucked up. And so I just started apologizing, and Keisha grabs me like in the store, like in front of everybody, and says, I know you're not a fucking racist, you're my bitch girl, so stop tripping. I'm not mad that you have racial tendencies. I'm mad that you have white privilege. And when she's telling me this, I'm looking into her eyes, and I can see that she's hurting, and she starts to cry a little, and I cry a whole lot, and my new mascara is running down my face, but I see her, you know? I like really see her, but more than that, I see myself. I look in the mirror to wipe my face, and I see myself, and I get it. It's like, it hits me like a fucking ton of brick. Like, it's not just about race. Racism is ignorance, but privilege, privilege is like everything in this country is built to benefit others because of the way they look, and that's why these officers get off. That's why they can't even get indicted, because they have privilege. Not only are they white, which affords them the right to see these men only as monsters, but these officers wear blue uniforms, which affords them the right to kill, and not even be tried, let alone found guilty. So they are like white and blue, which makes them like smurfs and shit, like they're all magical and shit, and I'm like, when the fuck did this happen? When did this country become like a nation where people could just be murdered without any recourse? And I quickly realized it's always been this way. That was the strange thing. I forgot. Nothing has changed. The truth is, I can breathe, and so can you. So we need to speak. We must. We must use our breath to scream, and Facebook is not the place to do that well. So I deleted my Facebook account, put on a warm coat, made a sign, and went out to protest because I want the cops to see me. I want them to see us. Young black man. Can you see me? But look down. Soon and very soon, I will be dead. I am lying in the street somewhere in these United States unable to speak, looking up at the vast night sky where blood seeps from my trembling body. Look at me good. I am your war wound. A second ago, I was shot in the heart by a police officer. He thought I had a gun, or thought I was resisting arrest, or thought I was the incredible Hulk, or thought I was going to run, or thought I didn't have the same value as his own son, so he put a bullet in me. He couldn't see me. He chose not to, and although his indictment will not bring me back to life, he still should serve time for using a deadly weapon while being socially blind. His uniform should not be a stay out of jail free card. He should have served and protected me from himself. And I just want you to know before I bleed to death that I don't want to be anybody's victim or martyr. I simply want my death to save another life. So don't be sad. Don't give my mama money to feed your bleeding heart. Instead, please, I beg you, get angry. Make demands. Harass your mayor, your congressperson, your president until they feel the weight of your rage and change laws. March for me in the streets, stain with my blood and let pires of guns and bullets burn on every corner to light my visual. Then if you have some faith left, scream my name to a loving God until the earth trembles, until you can't breathe and your voice box cracks inside your throat, at least until one night goes by in this country where another body does not become a casualty on the evening news. Look at me. See me now. Look deep. Aren't I worth a million stars? I am not a face hidden in a hoodie, a ruffian with a rebellious past, a rap lyric, a hustler hanging with the wrong crowd, a hoodlum with his pants down to his knees, a crackhead or a felon. Look deeper. I am not your greatest fear. Look me in the eyes. I am you.