David Zalubowski / AP
If you want to last more than a year or two in journalism, you’re supposed to have some kind of switch that doesn’t fully block the flow of human emotions — that’s simply not possible — but dampens your deepest feelings to the level where you can function, to sit at a keyboard and tell a story of unspeakable tragedy or unfathomable evil and somehow survive until the last paragraph.
The year 2020 has been the toughest test of that valve I could imagine. The subway workers and the truck drivers who walked into the wrong place at the wrong time to meet their invisible killer, the grandfathers who
survived World War II or Korea but could not outlive the coronavirus — and then the
suffocating racism of a system that keeps killing Black men and women who are simply jogging through a neighborhood, or even just trying to sleep in their own bed.
As a newspaper columnist, I’ve tried to write about the sorrow and the outrage of 2020 the way that my high school football coach Rob Pickert tried to teach me to play defensive end, with reckless abandon but under control. And I thought I was doing OK until I learned about the death last August of a 23-year-old Black man
named Elijah McClain, who bought an iced tea at a convenience store, encountered three Aurora, Colo., police officers, and was inexplicably killed in the span of about 15 minutes. Now I can’t stop the tides of sorrow that such a beautiful young man no longer exists, or bury my unvarnished rage at the police department that killed him. That valve that’s supposed to control my emotions is hopelessly broken.
Elijah McClain no longer walks the Earth for three reasons: He was Black. He was “
different.” And he was trying to do both in a suburb of Denver with an out-of-control police department that all too often views those things as a criminal offense.
I would challenge anyone to listen to
Elijah’s last words — “I have my ID right here. My name is Elijah McClain. That’s my house. I was just going home. I’m an introvert. I’m different. I’m just different, that’s all. That’s all I was doing. I’m so sorry.” — and not feel both oppressive sadness and a numb befuddlement that three grown men in blue could be so devoid of a soul to continue to choke him, even as he vomited and struggled to get out those all too familiar words, “I can’t breathe correctly.”
I want to be clear. It’s not that McClain’s life is more or less valuable than George Floyd, suffocated while handcuffed and calling out for his mother, or
Breonna Taylor, a lifesaving EMT who was shot eight times in a botched no-knock drug raid, or
Ahmaud Arbery, murdered for jogging through a mostly white neighborhood. Each is a senseless victim of systemic racism in the United States of America, and yet there is also a special poignancy in the way that the introverted McClain knew that he was a different kind of soul — and how he was embracing that and making his difference something truly special.
“He was the sweetest, purest person I have ever met,” a client at the massage therapy business where the 23-year-old worked — in what he hoped was a pit stop on the road to art school —
told a Colorado newspaper. His mother, Sheneen McClain, described her son
to Yahoo News as “a lightworker,” constantly focused on helping others. Elijah taught himself guitar and violin, and he would even go on his lunch break to a nearby animal shelter and
serenade the stray cats there. He was a vegetarian. When those three Aurora cops confronted McClain on the night of Aug. 24, 2019, he told them, “I don’t even kill flies.”
David Zalubowski / AP
Demonstrators march down Sable Boulevard during a rally and march over the death of 23-year-old Elijah McClain in Aurora, Colo., last month.
It was just one of the many ways that McClain died as he lived. He was
helping someone else — his brother, dashing out late at night to get him that iced tea from a nearby convenience store. Elijah was skinny, and he reported he suffered from both asthma and anemia. It was the latter condition that could make him cold enough, even on an August night, to head out in a coat and a ski mask. An unnamed resident along the busy highway near the Aurora-Denver border called 911 because of the ski mask and because the youth was “waving his arms.”
He was being Elijah. He was being different. But “different” doesn’t go over too well in a suburb like Aurora, a place that, according to
a deeply reported piece by Yahoo’s Alexander Nazaryan, bills itself as “the Safest Large City in Colorado.” That’s partly a dig at Denver next door, but also to erase the memory that in 2012, a white madman with crazy red hair walked into the multiplex showing the new Batman flick and fatally gunned down 12 people. The Aurora police
calmly arrested James Holmes — who’d had a shotgun, a semi-automatic rifle, and a Glock — in the parking lot without incident that night.