Philando's Peace Garden
One year later, we walk as a group toward the spot where Philando Castile was shot. The sky is open and blue above us. North and east, clouds puff upwards, verging on thunderheads. The sun is setting. The weather is eerily like it was during Philando’s last moments on earth—humid, a slight breeze easing ninety degree heat. It’s been a sweaty, two-mile walk from a private celebration and memoriam at a nearby historical site. Those gathered represent every part of Phil’s life—his mother, aunts and uncles, cousins, neighbors, high school buddies, and the parents and coworkers from the two elementary schools where he prepared and served food over ten years, to thousands of kids.
“Philando had no biological children,” his mother tells us, “but he had all those kids he fed and cared for and mentored and comforted and calmed. Those are all Phil’s kids.”
Among us, too, are those—white and brown—who, since Phil’s death, have felt destiny’s tap on their shoulder, propelling them into activism.
A year ago, Philando’s life ended at a routine traffic stop, his blood spilling over his seatbelt and white t-shirt while his traumatized girlfriend Facebooked the world, her small daughter still strapped into her carseat in the back.
That was a year ago. On this day, we’ve eaten together, picnic style—appetizers, and, of course, the fruits and vegetables Phil always urged on the children who knew him as Mr. Phil. We’ve heard a cycle of “praise” music songs and listened carefully as Philando’s mother retold the story about his first job at the age of thirteen, when he wanted some of those flashy new Jordans and she told him, “Okay, you get a job to pay for half and I’ll pay the other half.”
We’ve been brought to laughter and to tears by Pastor Danny Givens, who has buried too many loved ones, including his cousin’s two-year-old son, shot in the chest during a drive-by shooting in North Minneapolis within days of Philando’s death.
“We stand here in solidarity with Philando’s family,” said Pastor Givens. “King Philando lives forever. He was a voice and a light. . .a light this world will continue to see until we get justice. Philando’s flame will never die.”
Now, we arrive at the very spot where Phil’s life ended, this little verge by the side of a busy street. What was once empty grass and weeds is now filled with impromptu memorials, including a wooden plinth bearing the words of Nelson Mandela: “I have cherished the ideal of a democratic and free society in which all persons live together in harmony and equal opportunities. It is an ideal which I hope to live for and achieve. But it needs to be an ideal for which I am prepared to die.”
Philando was busy with an everyday life of kindness and responsibility. He didn’t choose to be a hero, to give his life for a cause. He had that choice taken from him, ripped away in an officer’s panic—an “experienced” officer who did everything wrong, yet still walks free. It’s those who Phil left behind who are being asked to become the heroes—his mother, his Uncle Clarence, his friends, his girlfriend, and many others who are raising funds for scholarships in his name, working to change laws and training and hearts, working to prevent the next person from turning into the martyr that Philando was forced to become.
At the historical site, before we left, I spoke with Phil’s friend and colleague, John Thompson, a man still struggling with his grief, yet one of those fate has tapped to become both healer and leader. “I know I’m supposed to forgive him,” he said of the man who shot his close buddy. “I know I have to forgive him. I have to. I just can’t do it yet.”
I shook my head, stubborn. “My tradition says I don’t have to forgive anybody until they’ve cleaned up their mess, made good the harm they did, and then, they have to ask me for forgiveness. Jeronimo Yanez could have admitted what he did, how he freaked, how he messed up. Instead, he’s blamed his victim and asked forgiveness of nobody. I don’t have to forgive him at all.”
Earlier in the day I spoke with an LAPD training officer, a twenty-year veteran, who told me, “Nothing good comes from this. It’s a traumatic thing for even the most hardened police officer to get involved in a categorical use of force. You live with it your whole life. You have feelings of second guessing yourself. You have friends and families and sometimes the public feeling that you’ve done the wrong thing and you’re saying, ‘You weren’t there.’”
All I could think was—well, Jeronimo Yanez gets to live with it. Philando is dead. Philando doesn’t get to live. I appreciate compassion, but there is no comparison.
But the officer kept going. “If something happens, whether it’s your fault or not, you’re going to be significantly affected. PTSD runs rampant through this profession. You have all those problems that are going to pop up later, and you don’t know why you’re angry at the dog, or the kid, or your wife, or you can’t think straight. I can tell you his condition is pretty fragile, because I’ve seen it. I know where it is.”
All I could think was—that little girl will have nightmares her whole life. Diamond Reynolds will have nightmares her whole life. And she didn’t make it happen. Yanez did.
The last stragglers join us at the shooting’s site. We now number about a hundred. Cars honk in support. Two young girls hand out candles in white, bell-shaped holders. Some of us have matches, lighters. The rest pass the light from one wick to another, carefully shielding each from the strengthening breeze, holding all aloft. The time is approaching—9:03, when Philando’s car was pulled over. The last candle is relit as the minutes pass.
9:05, when Yanez leaned in at the driver’s side window.
Seconds later, when Yanez fired seven shots—the last at 9:06 pm.
“There are two moments in our lives,” says Pastor Givens then, “that are the most holy moments of all. The moment when we’re born, and the moment of our passing. We would never have chosen for Philando’s passing to happen this way, but his spirit has passed, and we honor it and it lives on in us all.”
And we all of us—white, black, parents, children, retirees and high school students, friends and strangers—wipe away tears and hold our candles high.