It’s an image that’s hard to forget: the lifeless body of 18 year old Michael Brown laying in the street.
For four hours.
For four hours, Mike Brown was left dead in the streets of Ferguson, as though he – to quote Marc Lamont Hill – “belonged to nobody“. I remember being unable to tear my eyes away from the video showing his collapsed body – not out of some morbid desire to see the silence of death from a safe distance, but because his lifeless body in that street meant something immediately.
I had seen the police scene photos of Trayvon Martin’s murdered body. I had seen Oscar Grant get shot in the back. I had seen the aftermath of the 41 bullets fired at Amadou Diallo. I had grown up having seen and always remembering the circle of cops around Rodney King as he crumbled onto the pavement.
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