How George Floyd's death has wounded the psyche of suburban black community
Don't say anything. Don't reach for anything. Keep hands on the steering wheel or visible at all times. Simply answer questions.
This is what black parents teach their children about how to behave when pulled over or stopped by police, says the Rev. Nathaniel Edmond, pastor of Second Baptist Church of Elgin.
"You want to get out of the encounter alive," said Edmond, of Lake in the Hills. "The same applies to me, and I am almost 70 years old. This is the same talk that my parents had with me in Birmingham, Alabama, 50 years ago. And 50 years later, I am still having that same talk with my grandson. That's a problem."
Last week's death of George Floyd, who was choked by a Minneapolis police officer pressing a knee against the back of his neck as he lay handcuffed in the street, has rekindled those fears among suburban African Americans while reigniting America's protracted debate over race and police brutality.
Floyd's final words - "I can't breathe" - have reverberated across communities of color and disenfranchised people worldwide, bringing back memories of the 2014 choking death of Eric Garner by a New York City policeman.
It's the latest in a growing list of killings of black men and women that profoundly has scarred the community's psyche creating angst, frustration and anger unleashed through global protests and riots reminiscent of the 1960s.
"We are tired of being the victim ... of hearing all the excuses," Edmond said. "I will never condone violence, rioting and looting, but some folks feel that's the only way they can be heard."
Leaders say peaceful protests across the suburbs seeking justice for Floyd are being infiltrated by disrupters, distracting people from focusing on the real problem of systemic racism. Yet, unlike previous #BlackLivesMatter movements that have dissipated, many believe these protests will be a catalyst for change.
That's because white people and other communities of color are standing with black people like never before, said Traci Ellis, chief equity and human resources officer for Aurora-based Illinois Mathematics and Science Academy.
"The world has joined us," Ellis said. "We're not going to be sidetracked by trying to explain (the violence). This idea that somehow we will be taken more seriously if we protest a certain way, it is hypocrisy and intellectual dishonesty and we are not having it. When it comes to black protests, white people don't want to see it anywhere whether it is peaceful or not."
Though Ellis' two sons are grown, she feels black mothers like her live in "constant unrelenting fear" of their children being attacked, which takes a severe toll manifesting in psychological and physical exhaustion. She cried for three days after watching the video of Floyd's death.
"Our souls are traumatized," Ellis said. "Our entire mental state just gets thrown out of equilibrium. It is a system that is designed to command and control and break black people. It is anguishing and quite frankly we've had enough."
Many black leaders are calling racism a "white problem" and believe it will take the support of white community leaders to bring about institutional change.
It starts with transforming perceptions of black people, recognizing their humanity, and diversifying the ranks of suburban police departments, said the Rev. Clyde Brooks, chairman of the Arlington Heights-based Illinois Commission on Diversity and Human Relations.
"Why is it that Arlington Heights has no sworn police officers who look like me?" asked Brooks, adding that many Northwest suburban towns have failed to address the issue. "Our area is ripe for trauma. If you don't have a policy (on diversity and inclusion), then no one is accountable. If diversity has value, if black life has value, why does it always take trauma to wake us up?"
White high school students carrying #BlackLivesMatter signs were among those attending a weekend protest in Arlington Heights.
The diversity of protesters marching for Floyd across the suburbs underscores the message of injustice is resonating with people of all backgrounds, said Michael Childress, president of the DuPage County NAACP.
"They are about as sick and tired of it as we are," he said, noting that the race riots of the early 1900s are what gave birth to the NAACP.
For Larkin High School graduate Marteena Mendel-Duckins, 18, of Elgin, the protests and riots highlight the harsh reality of racial divisiveness and stereotyping that persist in America as she steps into adulthood.
"It's a really scary time," she said. "We are striving toward our goals. It's very hard to do that when you see police brutality always on the news. It's hard to progress as people, if we're still being constantly put in this position. It's almost pushing us back when we should be moving forward."