While These Men Were Being Killed...

By Tammarrian Rogers

Jul 10, 2016

This weekend, two innocent black men were killed by the hands of police officers.  I don’t know their names, not because they are unimportant, but because I’m simply bad with names.  What I’m not bad at, however, is honoring LIFE. Honoring that which has a heart that beats with the intention to live a life alive.

While these men were being killed, I was on a trip playing racquetball one state away from home. My partner of more than 12 years is Puerto Rican.  We are the best of friends when we go on these trips and we are perfect roommates.  This tournament was special in that we were playing our first National Masters Racquetball Tournament.  All entrants had to be 45 years old or older. I found it funny and strange to be playing in a tournament with such a requirement yet I was often still being carded for ordering or purchasing alcohol.  Nonetheless, most of the entrants were over 60 years old.  In fact, our oldest entrant was 80.

While these men were being killed, I was enjoying meeting, talking to, competing with, dining with, laughing with and cheering on people of a wide range of ages, many of which were young adults during a time of intense, overt racism and segregation.  I enjoyed connecting in aunique, special way with each player I met.

While these men were being killed, I met Joyce.  Joyce pulled her towel up over her body and gasped when her eyes landed on me as I walked past her in the women’s locker room.  I am often mis-taken as a young man. When I noticed the locker I was heading to was already occupied, I turned around, lifted my chest slightly, smiled at her, and began talking to my women’s doubles partner so that she would notice that I was a woman before she felt it necessary to call me out.  She seemed to relax as I continued to talk to my partner and found another locker.  Then it happened.  The most wonderful thing in this world just short of love happened.

While these men were being killed, Joyce chose to lean in and connect with us. She interrupted our conversation with an “Excuse me” and asked where we were from.  My partner answered that we were from Washington and I added that we were playing in the National Masters’ Racquetball Tournament that was being hosted at the club.  Her curiosity was clear when she asked if we were enjoying ourselves and winning.  She listened and started to share some of her competitive moments in her life.  Before she left the room, we had talked sports, aging, being present, and our disturbing political situation. When Joyce left that room, it was as if an old, good friend had just dropped by for short visit and was on her way again.

While these men were being killed, a black woman, a Puerto Rican woman and a Caucasian woman collected and shared a memory of our connection through a photo. We had clearly made each other’s day a lot brighter and it would be hard to forget for quite some time.

While these men were being killed, I met Francis.  Francis was 80 years old and had traveled with his wife to play several Master’s tournaments in previous years.  After we chatted about how we were all doing in the tournament, Francis mentioned his wife died 2.5 years ago. And that was how it happened.

While these men were being killed, I leaned in and asked Francis to tell us more about his wife.  How had she passed?  How many children did they have since he had already mentioned having a son? How many grandkids he had?  What were the symptoms he observed in his wife?

While these men were being killed, Francis shared his story and began to cry. I reached out and grabbed his hand, squeezed, and he squeezed back. We held hands as we shared the moment together, quietly connecting on the loss we were both experiencing because of the recent death of loved ones.  We held hands after several moments of silence were broken with Francis saying, “Thank you.  Thank you so much.  You are a wonderful person. Thank you.” We held hands as I said, “I understand and it’s ok to cry.”

While these men were being killed, Francis and I ended our shuttle journey together, grabbed a hearty hug, and took a snapshot of that special moment with a picture we both now share.

While these men were being killed, a deep-soul healing was being born by our ancestors who caused and felt the very pain we still feel today.  For I felt the pain so deep I could not reach it with my mind and enjoyed the deep inner calm that comes only when two souls connect and comfort one another with a promise that love is still present and will win.