Are your hands clean?

I am a mother with three boys and I can't help but feel some type of way after hearing the countless cries of black mothers responding to the timeless deaths of their sons who may or may not have been criminals but these young black men were unarmed and unjustifiably killed at the hands of the poli

ce. Anya Slauther, the mother of Pasadena teen Kendrec McDade and his fatal shooting death made the front page of the Wave newspaper weeks ago as a follow-up. He was shot to death in Pasadena in 2012 yet this mother is still attending press conferences, forced to face the realities of the injustices of a broken system as she continues to plead for the district attorneys office to review the case. Her lawsuit was settled with the city of Pasadena, yet she is requesting that the incident report that was prepared by the LA county office of Independent Review release their report to the public. She has not been allowed an opportunity to review the report and the "black lives matter" Pasadena chapter have found it in their hearts to support the grieving mother as she cries for District attorney Jackie Lacey to pull and review the report. This sad story has gone deeper than just the cries of one mother. In this particular case a young man, Oscar Cabrillo-Gonzalez reported that two armed teenagers stole his laptop. The truth was that two teens had indeed took his laptop but they were not armed. Officers Jeffrey Newlen and Matthew Griffin were in pursuit of McDade. They fired shoots at him. McDade was hit seven times and two of the gunshots proved to have been fatal. The officers learned that he was unarmed after he was dead. Cabrillo -Gonzalez has plead guilty for making a false report. The District attorneys office supported the officers belief that the suspect had a gun and no charges were filed. Unfortunately minorities know this story all too well. Is it possible to implement the use of body cameras so we can view the injustice up close and personal? Activists across the country are protesting for the use of cameras and accountability. Perhaps the poem that I wrote will resonate in the hearts and souls of those who don't understand what this system of injustice really is......

The poem is titled, Are your hands clean?

As I wash away the dry blood stains that remain as remnants of a profound soul I once knew. We all knew, we all carried. He was one of us, standing in the sins of yesterday facing a violent fate of today.

I scrub at the concrete, the hard surface of eggshell colored grey, it doesn't have life, no feelings, no empathy, no consideration. It just is....

My thoughts travel as I am caught staring at the candles, the notes, letters, pictures, and memorabilia that came from all over to show you love, to share our pain, our love, our connection.

As the blood stains are removed, the ashes of the chalk now rolling in the wind. The blood on my scrubber seem to never leave.


The water washes away all the evidence of the fatal day. The shots seem to numb me. My ears cry out as the steel pierced through your flesh. Pain of tomorrow without you is what forces my heart to rest in my throat.

The empty pieces of your soul traveling out of our reach. The clouds seem to seperate, carrying parts of you all over. You have become the solider in many families, many households. You represent so much.

To remove the blood stains, to wash away the chalk, to scrub at the broken pieces --it screams years, centuries, decades of pain, hurt and sorrow into history books, being scribed into the scrolls of our time. Perhaps your demise was not in vain. Somehow the laws must recognize our blood stains. Maybe the sly residents of our communities can recondition the thinking of the future leaders of the world.



Somehow the posters and the decorated concrete are there to wake up the youthful siblings of other races who once doubted what we have always known. In essence, the dark night may one day brighten around us as we become consumed by your presence. I am carrying pieces of you in my memory as I stand for the first time and look on at the broken pavement where you fell for the last time. May your soul never break! Until we meet again. By Andrea Walker