Codes of Silence Camille Goodison (bio) Early last spring, as New York City's COVID numbers started to rise, there were clear signs of the virus' deadliness. I remember walking past the shuttered neighborhood Episcopalian church and hearing a clunk. Across the street was a hospital where two men were loading bodies wrapped in white cloth onto large, refrigerated trailers. Sirens wailed all day and all night, too. For weeks. I got calls from my mom and from old school friends telling me of people who we knew who'd died: Serge, my cousin's brother-in-law, was a city housing cop. 39-years-young. He died leaving behind a wife and an infant daughter; there was Henry, my uncle's brother-in-law, who survived two bouts with cancer but didn't survive COVID; also, my mom's best friend's husband; that was followed by the death of a co-worker; and then the death of an old mentor who I've known for years. All black men. By Memorial Day weekend, I was already grieving when I heard about the viral video of a white woman in Central Park who threatened to call the police on a black man, a birder who asked her to leash her dog; then there was Ahmaud Arbery, the young man from Savannah, Georgia, hunted like an animal while out on a jog; Breonna Taylor killed while sleeping in her bed; and, George Floyd, the man whose murder kick-started a summer of protests. Like many black people, I've had my share of humiliating and potentially lethal run-ins with police and vigilantes while driving or otherwise going about my business. I've had police called on me for being somewhere some anonymous caller had judged I didn't belong. Once, while working as a doctoral student on a service-learning project in a small Mississippi town, I was chased by dogs because I unknowingly crossed the wrong side of the tracks. In upstate New York, while on retreat, I went for a walk by the woods at the foot of the Catskills when I heard someone fire a warning shot, in case I hadn't noticed all the private property signs by the few houses near the public road. Not to mention the usual Driving While Black incidents. [End Page 6] Anti-blackness and white supremacy are a part of our history and culture. I understand that my skin makes me conspicuous in some places, and that I need to be aware of all the negative ways in which people perceive black bodies. I know what it is to shop, walk, or otherwise exist as black and be regarded as violent and dangerous, a threat to the public order. All of this to say, there is nothing shocking about what happened to George Floyd. We know these injustices happen all the time across our nation, except this time was different. There was something about the brazenness of the killing, perhaps; or, maybe, it was that plus the country's collective fatigue from weeks of quarantine lockdown. A life of relative isolation, minus the usual opportunities for socializing, and where each day melted indistinguishably into the next, must have had some effect on people. Ironically, this was usually the time of year, the unofficial start of summer, when I would make plans to see family. I'd fly down south for a couple of weeks and stay with my parents. Because of COVID, this was now out of the question. I would be isolated from my family until it was safe to travel. Those regular summer visits were always something to look forward to. I remembered a summer, not so long ago, when I felt the need for this familial support. I was seeking to decompress from a toxic job where racial scapegoating and mob bullying were unfortunately common workplace features. I traveled to Georgia, looking forward to having some face-to-face conversations with my dad, a former high school Math teacher, a music lover, and a big influence in my life. We're particularly close as we share a birthday. We did get to talking and I...
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Jan 1, 2022
Mark Dawson 
