# MIT grieves with America

Data: 11-01-2025 21:42:37

## Lista de Vídeos

1. [An MIT Community Vigil (full event)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7GyufiddUqI)
2. [Sandy Alexandre (An MIT Community Vigil)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tX-IIMsnaEU)
3. [MIT President Rafael Reif (An MIT Community Vigil)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CgPPh3k0uBg)
4. [Kelvin Green II (An MIT Community Vigil)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g4xd27OepWo)
5. [Madeleine Sutherland (An MIT Community Vigil)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aKAsj5eFnc0)
6. [Jaleesa Trapp (An MIT Community Vigil)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jYT4YMzVC2Y)
7. [Kendyll Hicks (An MIT Community Vigil)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rWNiuInKpHw)
8. [Malick Ghachem (An MIT Community Vigil)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XHIzAlL0UQs)
9. [Romona Allen (An MIT Community Vigil)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-dPp-a0xwcc)
10. ["Cry No More" Performed by Heather Konar (An MIT Community Vigil)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-JEutL0E_GU)
11. [Aiyah Josiah-Faeduwor (An MIT Community Vigil)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I8XpmTbwZG4)
12. [DiOnetta Jones Crayton (An MIT Community Vigil)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kWQrVD3KAOU)
13. [Corban Swain (An MIT Community Vigil)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8-zsH-bY1u8)
14. [Danielle Geathers (An MIT Community Vigil)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ddf7JFuveXI)
15. [John H. Dozier (An MIT Community Vigil)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Usfh8yBwm28)
16. [AudreyRose Wooden (An MIT Community Vigil)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YpC6JA4m73Q)
17. [Chevalier Cleaves (An MIT Community Vigil)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8tGLnHZOC-4)

## Transcrições

### An MIT Community Vigil (full event)
URL: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7GyufiddUqI

Idioma: en

JOHN DOZIER: Good evening.
My name is John Dozier, and
I'm the Institute Community
and Equity Officer here at MIT.
I'm joining you from
Columbia, South Carolina.
It is comforting to know
that there are many of you
from different parts of
the world coming together
in the embrace of community.
Thank you for being here.
We're here in the wake of the
recent and tragic killings
of Ahmaud Arbery, George Floyd,
Tony McDade, and Breonna Taylor
to mourn the lives and reflect
as an institute community.
We are also here to feel our
connections to each other
in our global community
strengthening and deepening
in this moment.
We will hear from members
of the MIT community
who in the time of their own
processing of all this going on
have graciously offered to share
their heartfelt reflections.
The chat function is provided
for community members
to share your grief, anger,
dismay, compassion, love,
and support for one another.
I simply ask that we
remain respectful,
as we are a community made up
of people with varying ways
that we experience the
world and varying ways
that the world experiences us.
During these
troubling times that
are also complicated
by physical distancing,
I ask that you lean
on your community.
Reach out to your friends,
mentors, advisors, colleagues,
and professors.
If you're feeling
overwhelmed, there
are community
resources available.
The link to those
resources have been
shared in the comments section.
I now turn it over to our
president, Rafael Reif.
RAFAEL REIF: Thank you, John.
I'm deeply honored and humbled
to be asked to speak today.
In the face of
tragedy, it is always
important to come together.
And coming together has never
felt more important than now,
but we must be so far apart.
I wish more than anything that
I could be in person with all
of you, and now
especially that you
could be in person
with each other,
because it may be the
deepest human comfort in time
of suffering to know
that we are not alone.
We've come together
now because we know
and we insist that
Black Lives Matter.
The black lives are worthy,
and complex, and inspiring.
And every black person is
unique and beautifully human.
Every black person of
every age everywhere
deserves dignity, and
decency, and respect.
And, of course, we come
together because we
know that these truths and
the basic humanity of people
of color are violated
in our nation every day.
Last week, the example
that shocked the nation
was the brutal killing
of George Floyd.
But so many have suffered before
him over weeks, and decades,
and centuries.
Our nation is in
terrible trouble,
and part of the trouble
is the systemic racism
that is destroying
us from the inside.
A society that tolerates
official brutality thereby,
of course, encourages it.
If we hope to live in a society
that is better than its worst
impulses, we must use this awful
moment to drive and accelerate
positive change.
We must begin by insisting
in full accountability
for the officers involved
in killing Mr. Floyd.
We need to make clear
to anyone who doubts it
that the rage and anguish
unleashed by his murder
are deeply justified.
We need to support the
current protests which
are overwhelmingly filled
with peaceful people begging
for justice and peace.
And to address systemic racism
in policing and policing
and criminal justice, we must
press for systemic reform.
I hope we can join together
in doing these outward things.
But we also, we also have
work to do closer to home.
All of us who can count on the
advantages of education, money,
power, and even safety in
our homes and neighborhoods,
all of us with those
advantages benefit every day
from a society with a racist
history and a racist present.
And MIT is part of that society.
This is our community.
I believe it is a
wonderful community.
But it is our responsibility
to make it better.
So it is more
important than ever
that we accelerate
the efforts already
under way with the leadership
of our ICO, John Dozier,
to develop a strategic
plan for diversity, equity,
and inclusion so
that as a community,
we can live up to
our highest ideals.
I have enormous faith in and
love for the MIT community.
In our online graduation
celebration last week,
I was overwhelmed by the
images of our all-familiar life
together, and all the incredible
beauty of all those faces,
faces of every complexion--
your faces on campus working,
and playing, and thinking,
and making together.
It is difficult to face this
moment in our forced separation
without even the
consolation of being
able to embrace or to
wipe each other's tears.
To those of you who are
African-American or of African
descent, I know that I cannot
know what you're feeling.
But I can stand with you.
I do stand with you.
And I'm certain that the members
of the MIT community, all
of whom stand with you, too.
But mine is not the voice
that needs to be heard today,
so let's turn now to our
elected student leaders.
DANIELLE GEATHERS:
Hello, everyone.
My name is Danielle
Geathers, and I'm
the president of the
Undergraduate Association, also
known as the UA.
On behalf of the UA, I
want to thank all of you
for attending this vigil.
I also want to
thank the Institute
for providing this space for us
all to grieve as a community.
As a black woman,
my heart is heavy--
heavy not only because
of the persistent racist
attacks on black lives
which are exacerbated
by the disproportionate
impact of COVID-19,
but my heart is further burdened
with the abject pain that
accompanies the prevalent
normalcy surrounding
black death and the
vulnerability of black lives.
Tonight, our MIT
community gathers together
to mourn the brutal deaths
of George Floyd, Tony McDade,
Ahmaud Arbery, and
Breonna Taylor,
the most recent examples of
murders with which we are all
too familiar contributing
to the growing
disillusionment of justice.
The pattern of these murders
dates back centuries,
even before my
grandfather was born.
Yet, my heart remains heavy
with the generational pain
that belies our presence
in the 21st century.
We are suffering from a
multi-generational fracture.
The bone was never properly set
and substantial healing never
occurred.
Today, we see the
latest inflammation
of that initial injury,
a visible display
of a prolonged injustice
which has lingered
beneath the surface since
before our country's
founding, a foundational
part of American history.
As an institute, MIT opened
its doors to black students
early on.
Nevertheless, large numbers did
not come until the past half
century.
Even today, many black students
don't feel fully supported
by the Institute.
We can not ignore
the systems in place
perpetuating this feeling.
An overt act of hate is simply
one manifestation of racism.
We can not solely denounce hate,
but we must be vigilantly aware
of its cousins, privilege,
ignorance, and apathy.
We must improve our ability
to be a place of opportunity
and to reverse the
existential threats that
confront all of us.
As Angela Davis noted,
now more than ever,
it is imperative
that we cultivate
a culture of anti-racism.
Race-neutral policies have
proven severely inadequate.
We should all listen to the
strong and inspiring members
of our MIT community tonight.
These experiences can
inform our collective action
for a more inclusive MIT.
Thank you.
JOHN DOZIER: Now, hear
from Madeleine Sutherland.
MADELEINE SUTHERLAND:
Dear friends, I
am Madeleine Sutherland,
Graduate Student Council
president.
I am sorry to have
to address you
under these painful
circumstances
when bigotry and injustice
that plagued our past
continues to ravage
through our today.
We are gathered to mourn the
recent murders of black lives
including George Floyd, Breonna
Taylor, Tony McDade, Ahmaud
Arbery, and many others, and
to join the nationwide call
for not one more.
In the face of such reckless
hate and crimes so grotesque
it's hard to find
words for them,
words feel profoundly
inadequate.
These tragedies have affected
so many of us in different ways.
To the black community at
MIT and to all my colleagues
who are hurting, I offer
my friendship, support,
and solidarity.
It is important
in times like this
to remind everyone of the forms
of support available to you
to heal from all
of these events.
For example MIT Mental Health
is holding appointments
via telehealth.
Graduate students can contact
Gain and Grad Support.
Staff members can contact My
Life Services for support.
As you go out into the world
and fight against injustice,
remember to take care
of yourselves, too.
Your well-being
matters, and you are
no help to anyone burned out.
Talk to your friends, laugh,
do things that make you joyful.
But also [AUDIO OUT]
like [AUDIO OUT]
are more like [AUDIO OUT] And we
need to address the underlying
problem.
There comes a time when we
have to call evil by its name
the anti-black racism
plaguing this country
and claiming so many
lives is one such time.
As a person, I'm
grieved and angry
that some of my colleagues,
neighbors, and friends
are still not only being
made to feel unwelcome,
but having to fear for their
lives when out in public.
In particular to my
non-black colleagues,
it is important to listen to
and believe our neighbors who
have been telling us
about racism and police
brutality for years.
It shouldn't take this
very public murder for us
to pay attention.
Dr. King wrote in his Letter
From a Birmingham Jail,
"The time is always
right to do right."
And he warned us that
without our actively
working to bring
about justice, quote,
"Time itself becomes
an ally to the forces
of social stagnation."
And he wrote that 57 years ago.
Yet now, we find ourselves
needing to loudly affirm Black
Lives Matter, because some
people and institutions have
repeatedly acted otherwise.
We must call for not one more,
because a single life lost
to racism is
infinitely too many.
So how can we respond
to such appalling crimes
and their tremendous effect
on our friends and neighbors?
As a community, we can move from
being non-racist to actively
explicitly anti-racist.
That starts with self-education
on anti-racist practices
and listening to the
experiences of people of color.
It means unlearning stereotypes
that you may have learned
growing up or out in the world.
It means actively
confronting racism or bigotry
when you see it when
systems are not equitable,
and advocate for change.
In the era of
physical distancing,
we've learned that being
part of the MIT community
isn't about living in the Boston
area or being on MIT's payroll.
I believe what it
really means is
that our current struggles
against anti-blackness,
anti-Asian racism, sexism,
and all other forms of bigotry
are interdependent.
Thus, we have to
learn what it really
means to hold each other up.
If you are not sure
where to start, reach out
to your friends and colleagues
who may be struggling right now
and ask, how are you
doing and what can I
do to support you right now?
Have conversations in
your lab or department
about how to confront racism
and actively bring about equity.
My commitment as
GSC president is
to struggle alongside
you in the days to come,
showing up wherever I'm
needed, and advocating
to make MIT more equitable, and
to see our vision for a truly
equitable MIT that is welcoming
to all brought to pass.
Thank you.
DIONETTA JONES CRAYTON:
Good afternoon, everyone.
My name is DiOnetta Jones
Crayton, associate dean
and director of the MIT
Office of Minority Education,
and I'm also an
associate minister
at Morning Star Baptist Church
here in the Boston area.
We are in the
middle of a crisis,
and I think that
we can all agree
that this goes far beyond
the threat posed by COVID-19.
The charge I have today is to
offer some remarks, some words
of encouragement, if you will,
and to lead us into prayer
and a moment of silence.
Please allow me to share some
very personal thoughts with you
as part of my remarks.
I don't consider myself
to be a radical activist.
In fact, throughout
my life and career,
I believe that God has
always called me to serve,
to lead, and influence
change from within systems
and institutions rather
than from the outside.
I negotiate and fight the good
fight at the boardroom table.
I meet with key leaders.
I bring advocacy
groups together.
I help develop
programs and services
that address inequities.
I speak at public forums.
I stand firm in my convictions,
and I will unwaveringly
speak truth to power.
Yet for a very long
time, I secretly
felt that I was not the
right kind of activists.
For many years, I believed
that those courageous sisters
and brothers, those brave
enough to lead protests,
those brave enough to fight
for what is right, and radical,
and even disruptive
ways, those who
were willing to sacrifice
all for what they believed
was right even to
the point of death,
I believed that they were
and are the true warriors,
the fearless.
And there is enough
evidence based
on the lives of civil
and human rights
activists past and present
to suggest that all of this
is true.
But today, I have a different
worldview than I did in my 30s
in this regard.
I have a heightened awareness.
Today, I know and I understand
that both approaches,
all approaches are needed to
influence positive change.
We can all be warriors.
So we can all be drum majors
for justice in our own spaces,
in our own spheres of influence.
We need those called to serve
and change systems from within,
and we also need those called to
shake the walls, the ceilings,
and the very foundations of
oppressive policies and systems
from without.
We need both.
We needed Martin and Malcolm.
We need Jesse and Al.
We need it President
Kennedy and we still
need President Barack Obama.
We needed Nelson Mandela
and Petey Greene.
We need it Shirley
Chisholm, and we still
need Dr. Shirley Ann Jackson.
We needed Angela Davis, and we
need folks like Ava Duvernay.
And we still need those
three powerful women
who started the Black
Lives Matter movement.
Today, we need everyone
who says they care not just
to care, but to do their part
to fight the injustices that
threaten to destroy us all,
that threaten to destroy
people who look like me.
So what am I saying here?
I'm saying that it's
time for all of us
to gain a heightened awareness.
And more importantly,
it's time for each of us
to stand up and
walk in our calling.
Because no matter who
you are or where you are,
if you say you care about
the injustices in this nation
and in this world, you
have a role to play.
You don't have to do what I do.
I don't have to do
what you do, but we all
have to do something.
See, injustice anywhere is still
a threat to justice everywhere.
And whatever affects
one directly still
affects us all indirectly.
As a woman of color and as
a black woman specifically,
I am scared for every black
man, woman, and child.
I fear for the lives
of people of color.
And even as an
administrator at MIT,
I'm afraid for our
students sometimes.
I sincerely desire
to take care of
and protect every single
one of our students
not just from the outside
world, but also from some
of the inequities they may
face inside our hallowed halls
of MIT.
Yet I believe there
is still hope.
As a woman of faith,
I still have hope.
On July 13, 2016
some of you will
remember that I spoke
to the MIT community
in a forum much like this
on a day much like today.
And just four years later, I
am sitting here on a Zoom call
beseeching all of us to do our
part to end this injustice,
to stop the violence
against black men
and women and all
marginalized populations.
MIT, we have to do our part.
We must.
Now is the acceptable time, and
today is the day of salvation.
So as we bow our heads,
and humble our hearts,
and go into a word of
prayer, we ask for God
to compel our hearts to act.
Dear God, we are hurting.
We are angry.
We are numb.
We are tired.
Ease our pain, soothe
our weary souls,
and give us the
spirit of resilience.
Transform the minds of those who
live with hate in their hearts
and embolden those who walk
in love to use their power
and their privilege for
the good of all humanity.
Dear God, we are tired,
but we will not give up.
We still refuse to believe
that this nation is
incapable of rising
above its current state.
We can have peace.
We will have freedom.
So call on all of us.
Call each and every person
under the sound of my voice
to walk in their purpose.
Remind us that we must all
be willing to do our part.
Let no one sit idly by while
murder happens in our streets.
Instead, let us all
rise up unafraid.
Let us rise up in spite of
the ache that is inside of us,
for we are hard-pressed on every
side, but we are not crushed.
We are perplexed, but
we are not in despair.
We may be persecuted,
but we are not abandoned.
And we may be struck down,
but we are not destroyed,
and we are not going anywhere.
So Lord, pick us up.
Wipe us off.
Mend our hearts.
Join us together
in unity and love.
Heal our land, dear God, so
that one day there will truly
be liberty and justice for all.
Please join me in
a moment of silence
as we remember George Floyd,
we remember Tony McDade,
Ahmaud Arbery, Shawn Reed,
Breonna Taylor, Tamir Rice,
Trayvon Martin, Oscar Grant.
We remember Eric Garner,
Michael Brown, Philando Castile,
Samuel DuBose, Sandra Bland.
We remember Walter
Scott, Terence Crutcher.
We remember them
and so many others
who lost their lives
to senseless violence.
We remember so we do not
forget, and we honor them
with this moment of silence.
MIT, now is the acceptable time.
Today is the day of salvation.
What will you do to
help save us all?
Because believe me,
we all need saving.
I love you all.
God bless you, and thank you.
JOHN DOZIER: Thank you DiOnetta.
As I mentioned
earlier, I'm located
in Columbia, South Carolina.
In fact, I was born
and raised in the home
that I'm in right now, a home
in which our children are
the fifth generation in
my family to be raised.
Growing up in this context has
given me a great appreciation
for history, certainly
my own family history,
which itself is marked
with tremendous struggle
and relative privilege.
But also, the history of my
home state in the southeast
more broadly over the decades,
much of which remains untold.
In fact, it was on
February 15, 1947,
in Greenville, South
Carolina, a white cab driver
named Thomas Brown was
robbed and stabbed to death.
The sheriff reported that muddy
footprints at the crime scene
led them to the house of Willie
Earl, an African-American man.
The house was about a mile away.
Based on circumstantial
evidence,
Mr. Earl was arrested at his
mother's house the next day
and taken to the county jail.
That evening, a mob
went to the jail
and took him without
resistance from the jailer,
beat, stabbed, and
shot him to death.
More than 150 suspects
were questioned
and 31 were charged
with the crime.
Many of the men signed
confessions, and some
implicated the mob's
leader as well as
the person who shot the killer.
On May 21 of that
same year, a jury
acquitted all defendants
on all counts.
Fast forward to December 2,
1975, in Montgomery, Alabama,
Bernard Whitehurst Junior
was shot and killed
by a police officer who said
that he thought Whitehurst
was the suspect in the robbery
of a neighborhood grocery
store.
Police officers
planted a gun near him
to ensure that the
official narrative would
be self-defense.
However, that narrative was
disputed by other officers
at the scene.
There was no autopsy.
Mr. Whitehurst's
body was quickly
embalmed before his
family was contacted.
Six months later,
an investigation
by the local newspaper
and the local attorney
led the body to being
exhumed and an autopsy
being performed which showed
that Mr. Whitehurst had
been shot in the back.
Eight police officers
were forced to resign
or were terminated.
However, no one was
convicted of a crime.
Fast forward again to March 13,
2020 in Louisville, Kentucky.
26-year-old Breonna
Taylor was shot and killed
by police officers who entered
her apartment while serving
a no-knock warrant.
The warrant stemmed
from an investigation
centered on two people who
were already in police custody
and suspected of selling
drugs from a house that
was more than 10 miles
away from where she lived.
One of the people in custody
had a prior relationship
with Ms. Taylor.
The search warrant
included her residence
because it was suspected
of receiving drugs
and because her car
was registered and seen
parked on several occasions in
front of the suspect's house.
However, no drugs were
found in her apartment.
I contrast these
horrific incidents
against the June 17, 2015 mass
murder of nine black people
during a Bible study at
Mother Emanuel Church
in Charleston, South Carolina.
Video footage identified
Dylann Roof, a white male.
The following morning,
he was arrested
in Shelby North Carolina.
When arrested, he wasn't
even placed on the ground.
Rather, while in custody, he
complained about being hungry,
and the officers took
him to Burger King
and bought him a meal.
Our history is replete
with examples like the ones
that I've shared, including the
more recent killings of Tony
McDade in Tallahassee,
Florida, George
Floyd in Minneapolis,
Minnesota, Ahmaud
Arbery in Glen County, Georgia.
What has happened is not simply
the results of a few bad people
doing bad things.
Rather, it speaks to the
systemic dehumanizing
and undervaluing of black
lives born out of slavery,
reinforced by Jim Crow law,
and promoted even today
by media stereotypes.
I'm here as a black
man, son, husband,
and a father who is in deep pain
from watching history repeat
itself over and over again.
I'm a black man who lives
in deep concern and fear
that my education and whatever
privileges that I may have
for being so deeply connected
to my own family history
may not be enough to
stop me or any member
of my extended family,
friends, or members
of the community that raised
me from having a similar fate.
I'm also here as an active
member of my community
and an administrator who
understands that while we
cannot legislate love, we can
and must legislate the hateful
dehumanizing actions of those
who are unwilling to check
their biases.
I stand in support of
peaceful protesters insisting
on accountability in
the recent killings.
And although today we
are here to grieve,
I'll also stand with our
institute leadership, students,
staff, postdocs,
and faculty prepared
for deeper and sustained
strategic action
to accelerate our community
toward a more inclusive,
equitable, and just future.
CORBIN SWAIN: Thank
you for that, John.
And my name's Corbin.
I'm a third-year PhD
student in bioengineering.
And this isn't part of
what I planned to say,
but John mentioned
being a father--
and one of my
brothers in the faith
that I was talking to
yesterday was telling me
that his daughter heard--
about six years old,
heard about what happened,
the news and community
conversation.
She was asking about,
what is racism?
What does it mean?
And the parents told her.
And the next day he
asked his daughter, what
was your favorite thing?
What was the thing that
made you happy today?
She says, that you
came home safe.
No six-year-old should
have to be concerned
for the rest of her
life about the safety
and life of her father because
of the color of his skin.
So when we talk about
injustice, it's not just system.
It's not just incident.
It's not just a video.
It's children.
It's lives.
It's people.
It's a lifetime of
trauma and mindset
that we have to adapt to.
And so there's a tendency
to distance ourselves
from these events going
on in the country.
There is the news over
here, and then there's
our personal lives over here.
However, today and many days
for black folks, that separation
is not there.
The things we see in a
video are on the continuum
of our lived experience.
And as hard as it is to
admit, the modern-day lynching
of George Floyd is on the
continuum of our experiences
with inequities in
education and representation
in the student body
and faculty of MIT.
As hard as it is to
admit, the protests
on the streets though more
than 140 cities across America
and their documented
sabotage by incendiary groups
is on the continuum of
the black history month
installation in Lobby 7 in
2019 and its desecration
with symbols of hate.
In the same way that
survivors of assault
can be triggered by seeing their
perpetrator, as black people,
we are triggered and traumatized
recalling the ongoing assault,
devaluation, and death whenever
we see our perpetrator, racism,
in all of its many forms.
So I'm going to do
two short poems.
This first poem is an email that
was sent on February 21, 2020,
to members of the MIT
residential floor community
to advertise a party.
The email repeated the
phrase, "average black male,
around 5 foot 6 wearing a
blue backpack" nine times,
jokingly referencing a police
description of a suspected dorm
intruder.
Now, though an apology was
made for black folks on campus,
this was unfortunately
another example
of how we were not welcome,
triggered, and trumped.
In this poem, I
replace each instance
of the phrase, which I'll show
in bold, "average black male, 5
foot 6 wearing a blue
backpack" to shape
a narrative about the struggle
for inclusivity and security
of black students on campus.
I speak out of a love for
a community in a place
that I call to action,
the flourishing of all.
Thank you for listening.
On-campus security, you're
walking in the halls.
There's no one around
and the lights are out.
Out of the corner of your
eye, you spot it, racism.
It's following you,
about zero feet back.
It gets down on all fours
and breaks into a sprint.
It's gaining on you, concealed
as an honest mistake,
an unvetted email.
You're looking for your room,
but you've locked yourself out.
It's almost upon you now, and
you can see there's its face.
On its face, my god,
its face is everywhere.
Running for your life,
from the empty promise
of diversity and inclusion.
It's louder than the pipes.
You're not welcome here.
Lurking in the shadows,
recurrent door surfer,
sloshing from the streets of
America onto the halls of MIT,
living in the basement.
William Barton Rogers and the
enslaved people, his family
owned searching for Nellie,
because only a student
ID can unthug the black man.
Put it on a slingshot,
actual cannonball ball,
because iron skin
too thick to let this
come between me and my degree.
Now, it's dark.
You seemed to have lost it, but
you hopelessly lost yourself.
Stranded with a stranger,
you creep silently
through the trash chute.
Aha, in the distance, a small
hatch with the light on-- hope.
You move stealthily
toward it, but your leg
is caught in our shit.
Gnawing off your leg,
limping to the hive mind.
Quiet, quiet.
Now, you're at our party sitting
inside a lie instead of a home.
So this, thank
you for listening.
This next poem is
a call to action.
It's a call action, a movement.
There's a movement in us, us
beaten, us broken, us kindred,
once stolen.
There is a movement in us, all
starved and choked in endless
woke.
There is a movement
in us like tears
forcibly held back, allowed
to see through the eyes,
but never able to
change their gaze.
Finally pushing out
of the tear ducts,
streaming around the plump
cheeks of a smiling face
of their country.
The tears crash into the ground
and they cry out, Lord, speak.
America, he says,
will you join hands
with the tree that
grows watered by tears?
Will you be cut by her bark
to be healed of your fears?
Will you see power and
injustice as sins held too dear?
Will you say to the tree,
live free and live here?
There's a movement in her,
whether joined at the side,
or left hanging, left dry.
There is a movement in her,
all earth and crown, crimson
and brown.
We are the movement, for sure.
Tired of mourning,
unseen, we march
to the mourning of a dream.
There is a move in the heart.
There is a move of the mind.
There is a move by the spirit.
So the only word I
can find is move.
Move from your pockets with
your voices on your feet.
The ancestors call to us, move.
Thank you.
MALICK GHACHEM:
Thank you, Corbin,
for your poetry,
which I can only
follow with the prose of
a historian, a lawyer.
My name is Malick Ghachem.
Good evening, everybody.
I'm a member of the
MIT history faculty
and I'm also a
criminal defense lawyer
who works and teaches
in the area of race
and criminal justice.
It is profoundly
discouraging to consider
that who gets to breathe
in America in 2020
is a matter of race.
We have seen that this
is true in relation
to the COVID-19 pandemic
in recent months.
And the murderer of
George Floyd shows
that it is also true in relation
to our policing practices,
which must change
in radical ways.
Such change will require
white Americans, and indeed
all of us, to make sacrifices of
the kind we have been generally
willing to make in
the face of COVID-19,
but seem unwilling to make in
the face of structural racism.
And that is because policing
practices are so deeply
embedded in our
economic organization,
and how we think about
cities, and property,
and longstanding
doctrines of criminal law,
and procedure, and many
other factors too numerous
to mention here.
If you can muster the fortitude
to watch the extended video
of the murder of George
Floyd, you will see that
at the very end, well
after the police have
come on to the scene
and done their damage,
a team of emergency
medical personnel
from the fire department
arrives to try to save Floyd.
I do not know whether overcoming
police brutality requires
the wholesale abolition
of police departments,
as some have argued
in recent days.
But if we had police
departments that
acted more like
fire departments--
that is seeking to heal
or to put out fires
rather than to apply force
and escalate tension--
we would almost certainly
be in a better place.
This past week, I
received an email
from Kaijeh Johnson, who
is a junior at the Peabody
Institute, which is the music
conservatory of the Johns
Hopkins University in Baltimore.
And he wrote me as follows.
Quote, "It saddens me to see
the divide between the leaders
of this country and
their citizens of color
continue to grow as weeks go by.
Each day, I grow more afraid
of the world we live in
and more afraid of
the people I believe
are supposed to protect me.
I believe there needs to
be a change in the system.
"I believe the voices of
America's black and brown
citizens need to be
heard and their message
is taken to heart.
I believe it is
time for a united
front against the injustices
that plague our communities.
Though I know these
things are necessary,
I have no clue where
to begin," unquote.
And so he asked me, with
your knowledge of the past
and your knowledge
of the present, what
is the most effective way for
young people in 2020 to present
a united front and
achieve results
as our ancestors did during
the Civil Rights Movement?
And so what I want to
do is share with you
a modified version of what
I wrote back to Kaijeh.
For starters, I
urged him to make
music that would capture
this moment and his feelings
about it, just as Corbin has
just made some poetry that
captures this
moment so very well
and his own feelings about it.
I told Kaijeh that he could
help to mobilize people of color
to vote in the
November elections,
and that he could work to make
his own institution resemble
the kind of country
he wants to see.
But Kaijeh was particularly
interested in what
the past could teach us.
And so I told him
also that change
happens in both small
and large scales,
and that we don't
really understand what
happens on the large scale.
No historian or sociologist
at MIT or elsewhere
has yet developed a scientific
model of the intersecting
forces that make for something
as big as the Civil Rights
revolution of the
1950s and '60s.
Some observers of the
opening days, weeks, and even
months of the French
and Haitian revolutions
were aware that they were living
through a very unusual time,
but none of them
could have foreseen
the scope of what was to
come, and not all of them
would have liked what
they were going to see.
For example, the
free people of color
who mobilize for
political rights
at the start of the
Haitian Revolution
were entirely unaware that
their claims would set in motion
a process that would lead
to the abolition of slavery,
a result few of them
sought because many of them
were themselves slave holders.
The violent white
mob that destroyed
the property of the
British East India Company
in Boston Harbor
in 1773 was unaware
that it was setting in motion
the American Revolution,
which upset almost every notion
of law and order then prevalent
in the British empire.
There is no catechism
for revolution.
Every large-scale change is the
product of many small changes.
Looking back at the
French Revolution
in the middle of
the 19th century,
the French political philosopher
Alexis de Tocqueville
wrote that he saw more
continuity than change
at the end of it.
He would have recognized the
American dilemma with racism,
which seems to
hold constant, even
when it is said to be changing.
But even Tocqueville may
have undersold the role
of continuity in a revolution.
Making an impact almost always
involves working in teams.
Teamwork means looking
for the particular gifts
the different individuals
bring to the table.
It also means learning to rely
on others when your own energy
and availability begin to fade.
A social movement of
the kind that Kaijeh
is thinking of almost certainly
needs something like a business
continuity plan.
This is arguably
what was missing
when the Arab Spring of 2011
faded into the Arab winter.
And finally, I urged
Kaijeh to remember
the lessons he learns
under the COVID-19 lockdown
so that when
residential university
life and normal economic
activity resume,
he could find ways to
stand up for these lessons
when he encounters others trying
to slip back into old habits
and patterns as they
and we undoubtedly will.
We can remember, for example,
that people are, in fact,
capable of making
great sacrifices
and undertaking
great risks, but also
that the distribution of
sacrifice and risk in America
is very uneven.
How to figure out the right mix
of compassion and confrontation
that will move others
to level the playing
field before the
next crisis hits
is a difficult balancing
act, especially so
for people of color.
But increasingly,
it seems that we
will need more of an
appetite and tolerance
for productive confrontation
in this new era.
And so I told Kaijeh to
cultivate both the skill
and the art of that practice.
Thank you.
SANDY ALEXANDRE: Thank you,
Malick, for your remarks.
My name is Sandy Alexandre.
I am a faculty member in the
literature section here at MIT.
Thank you for being here.
I will begin my remarks.
There is a quote
by Toni Morrison
that I realize I trot
out almost every time I'm
asked to talk at MIT about
a racist incident that
has happened in the world or
more locally here on campus.
This is the quote.
"The function, the very
serious function of racism
is distraction.
It keeps you from
doing your work.
It keeps you explaining
over and over
again your reason for being.
Somebody says you
have no language,
and you spend 20 years
proving that you do.
Somebody says your head
isn't shaped properly,
so you have scientists working
on the fact that it is."
"Somebody says you have no
art, so you dredge that up.
Somebody says you
have no kingdoms,
so you dredge that up.
None of this is necessary.
There will always be one
more thing," end quote.
I can see now why I
liked this quote so much
and why it worked
so well for what
I wanted to convey
particularly to students, which
was basically, please
don't let racism
get in the way of what
you're here to do.
Please don't let
it drain the energy
and use up the bandwidth you
need to study, to take exams,
and to graduate.
Please don't let it
get to your head.
Please don't let
it stunt the growth
you are here to experience.
I can see how as a teacher, I
could endorse Morrison's advice
to stay focused.
But to tell yourself that
racism is a distraction
is, in effect, a
coping mechanism.
If you're black and can say
that anti-black racism is
a mere distraction,
an annoying nuisance,
I would venture to say that
it's not because it's true.
It's because for now,
that's what will get you
through another day.
While I certainly wouldn't want
to grudge anyone, including
myself, this coping
mechanism, this handy mantra
that racism is distraction,
the past and the present
have proven time and time
again that racism is not merely
a thorn in a person's side.
It's also a suffocating
knee on a person's neck.
To graduate from the notion
that racism is a distraction
is to enter into more
advanced knowledge
that racism is, in fact,
also a serial killer.
This is not sensationalism.
This is not hyperbole.
This is what MIT on any ordinary
day would call hard data.
Because we all know full
well, or we at least
can very easily
find out that racism
has killed Fred Hampton, Henry
Dumas, Amadou Diallo, Oscar
Grant, Tamir Rice, Freddie
Gray, Sandra Bland, Eric Garner.
Philandro Castile, Tatyana
Jefferson, Breonna Taylor,
George Floyd, David
McAtee and many more.
And this is only a
list of those killed
from the racism of
police brutality.
Because in between distracting
and serial killing,
wouldn't you know racism still
also finds time for robbing,
too.
It robs you of
your peace of mind,
of your dignity, your health,
your sleep, your sanity,
economic opportunities,
housing opportunities,
educational opportunities,
and your ability
to have recourse to any
real justice in the world.
Is it any wonder that
things have come to a head?
Is it any wonder that black
people are not so much angry
as they have been angered?
I don't know who
needs to hear this,
but please understand
that you effectively
turn a serial killer
into a personal henchman
when you see it destroying
communities of color
and you sit idly by, letting it
continue on its killing spree.
Please understand that
siccing that serial killer
on your neighbor for sport
or simply because you can
will come back to bite you.
Indeed, as the past few days
have made crystal clear,
racism is everybody's problem.
So let's not blame the
victims of racism for saying,
enough is enough.
Let's blame racism for
being so distracting that it
deprioritized a whole
global pandemic.
The gall.
Let's blame racism for being
so flagrantly murderous
that it has absolutely no qualms
about being caught on camera.
For far too long, many of
us have been bearing witness
to racism's crimes.
And for even longer
than that, many of us
have been feeling the
brunt of its rampage
all over the backs and
necks of our communities.
I don't know who needs
to hear this question,
but were you there when racism
serial killed black people?
Sometimes, it causes me to
tremble, tremble, tremble.
Were you there when racism
serial killed black people?
And if you were,
then what did you do?
So yes, let us mourn the
murder of black people.
But let us also not allow
racism to pigeonhole us
as perpetual mourners to
its perpetual atrocities.
And the only way to do that
is to stop it in its tracks
by supporting people and
organizations that affirm
the full range, indeed, the
full breadth of black lives,
and by undernourishing
and starving
white supremacy and its minions.
That's the way we fight.
That's the way we win.
And in the meantime, to students
and community members who
are members of these
persistently besieged
communities, please turn
to the people who love you
and who help you remember to
breathe, to take a breather,
because they actually see
you and wish you well.
Their love of you matters.
Their love means the world.
Their cheering you on and
their loving up on you
means that the future we want
might actually be not only
possible, but also sustainable.
Please know that I
see you, I love you,
and that I am
cheering you on, too.
Thank you.
RAMONA ALLEN: Thank you, Sandy,
for those powerful words.
My name is Ramona Allen,
and I'm the vice president
for human resources at MIT.
Some of us, we are at
a familiar crossroads,
familiar because as
a person of color,
violence has impacted
our experiences
and our family histories in this
country since its inception.
Like a virus, racism
mutates and changes.
It leads to a national
sickness marked
by widespread economic,
political, and social
inequalities.
As a child growing up
in segregated Boston,
I had eggs thrown at me.
My school bus was regularly
stoned and shot at.
I had no choice
but to keep moving,
so these traumas were
never really addressed.
But these are collective,
deep-seated, historical dramas
that are now manifesting
on the streets.
It's exhausting to be a person
of color in this country.
And quite frankly, we are tired.
I'm tired of imagining my
husband, family, and friends,
people who look
like George Floyd
and Breonna Taylor facing a
criminal legal system that
does not recognize their
fundamental worth and humanity.
I'm deeply disheartened
and disappointed
by the ways in which the
lives of people of color
have been devalued
over and over again.
This is quite a
heavy burden to bear.
Black men, women, and
trans lives matter,
and this shouldn't have to
be a point of discussion.
Fortunately, we convene
today as members
of a community of teaching,
learning, and innovation.
We draw strength from
knowing that at MIT, we
continue to be committed
to educating students
in ways that will serve
the nation and the world.
Watching commencement just a
few days ago warmed my heart.
It left me feeling
encouraged and inspired.
I'm inspired by our
staff and our faculty who
in countless ways
demonstrate their brilliance,
thoughtfulness, and kindness.
You just heard that
from Sandy, and Malick,
and the other students
that were here.
I'm counting on you all.
My expectations for this
community are extremely high.
We have the best and
the brightest minds
here, so we need to lead the
country from Cambridge the way
we do in every
other way that makes
MIT a place of excellence.
Innovation, imagination, and
creativity are part of our DNA.
We must use these
strengths to be
part of envisioning new ways
to be together as a community.
At this particular crossroads,
we must take action, and now.
No more waiting.
Educate yourself.
Raise awareness.
Sign petitions.
Donate to bail funds.
Support our activists.
Protest.
Vote.
We need all people involved,
not just people of color,
but all people to
fight for change.
You are experiencing a new
level of consciousness.
Just embrace it,
because we need you.
We need changes in laws,
behaviors, and hiring
practices.
We need to create
greater opportunity
for people from
marginalized communities
to access education.
And finally, we need to hold
each other accountable for that
change.
Ask your peers what they
are doing to enact change.
We must harness the strengths
of our diverse campus community,
and in the spirit of
our mission statement,
bring knowledge to bear on
one of the world's greatest
challenges.
By working together,
let's lead the way, MIT.
We're calling on you
to do that, and all
of the members of this
community to step up, and let's
get this done.
Thank you.
CHEVY CLEAVES:
Thank you, Ramona.
Good evening.
I'm Chevy Cleaves, the Chief
Diversity Inclusion Officer
for MIT Lincoln Laboratory.
James Baldwin said, "It
is certain in any case
that ignorance allied with power
is the most ferocious enemy
justice can have."
Like many of you,
the last two weeks
have been two of my most
difficult in a long time,
and it's not over.
While George Floyd's
senseless death
is one of a half dozen tragedies
in the last two weeks alone
that have been captured
on the national stage,
we know that other tragic
events frequently occur away
from the national spotlight,
but are actually center
stage in most of our lives.
I appreciate the opportunity
to join with you today
to share some of my thoughts.
I've spent over three decades
either preparing to serve
or actually serving my nation.
25 years on active
duty, three years
as a civilian in the
senior executive service,
and four years
before all of that
preparing as a student
at the Air Force Academy.
That service was and is meant to
purchase for all citizens, not
just some of them, the
opportunity to realize,
embrace, and extend
our highest ideals.
However, it is with an
incredible, ever-deepening, and
pervasive sense of sadness
that I am continually
forced to acknowledge that far
too many everyday Americans
and leaders do not
fully understand what
it means to be exceptional.
And history will,
in fact, judge what
has become normalized
behavior as anything but.
Even worse, the sacrifice that
established and now sustains us
is cheapened by the message
that our constitution
and our institutions are for
some citizens and not all.
As a result, like
many others, I have
feared for my family,
those who look like us,
and for the community
of those Americans
who understand the meaning and
possibility of our aspirations.
Alexis de Tocqueville noted
that the greatness of America
lies not in being
more enlightened
than any other nation,
but rather in her ability
to repair her faults.
I truly hope so.
When I walked out of
the Pentagon on 9/11,
the world had forever changed.
Many of our divides
were already beginning
to be pushed aside, however
temporarily, in order to focus
on a common external threat.
Those divides soon returned,
opposing a common vision
for our future.
I do hope that the next
stage for all of us here
and around the country
is that this time,
we can commit to facing this
common internal threat in a way
that brings sustained change.
Thank you.
AUDREYROSE WOODEN: Hello.
I wish I was before
you on better terms,
but this is for my community.
I will be sharing a poem with
you called Our Protectors
Tee Up.
This one isn't about
me, and it's not
about my family issues.
It's not about my PTSD.
It's not about my
pain, though they'd all
be fitting for an
occasion such as this.
I started with that
to make it very clear
that I wrote my last angry
poem a long time ago,
and I wrote my last scared
poem even longer before that.
So if that's what
you came for, that's
why we writers sell books.
But this is for us,
because they only seem
to talk business around here.
But this is my business,
so listen close.
I'm in the business
of black joy.
I'm in the business
of black love.
And most of all, I'm in
the business of black life.
And we won't stop until
we get what's ours.
So no, this is for the
ones that have always
been good at protecting us,
my brothers and my sisters,
which we naturally love to see.
Your laughter, oh so
thunderous, reminds
me of bellowing winds,
and dripping rain drops,
and the smell of
freshness that comes only
with the calm after the storm.
Your voices having been warning
signs before lightning struck,
and your smile has
given the sun permission
to shine again, wrapping
us up in a warm embrace,
whispering that
everything is not OK.
But with them, at
least we'd be safe.
Y'all are like the welcome mat
behind a door jammed shut--
ready and oh so willing, but not
everyone is meant to use you.
Y'all are like the perfect
mix of the truth that we want
to hear and the truth
that we need to hear,
always strapped with
the perfect GIF.
Over, and over, and
over again, we're
reminded of how your
existence is a perfect gift.
And y'all know us better
than we know ourselves,
see us how we see ourselves,
correct our vision,
correct each other, growing
together intentionally.
Y'all be sounding like you've
been around for a long time,
like you've lived
a lot of lives,
like you've seen some stuff.
And still live each day
like you could lose it
all, knowing that we'd never
lose each other though,
because there's something
prophetic about this linkage.
So no matter how hard we
try, no one is left alone.
And no matter how often
or how much we cry,
joy always comes in the morning.
And no matter how far we travel,
we still trust each other
with our lives.
Yes, trust because
our protectors,
they're not these
bandwagon fans.
They're not a rent-a-cop
or a bad apple, no.
They're more than just the
boys and girls next door.
No, they're more than
we could ever ask for.
But this isn't about
just me and how I feel.
This is about how I couldn't
help myself when I think
of the love that I feel
daily from this community,
because y'all
aren't like family.
You are.
Y'all aren't like the funniest
people I've ever met before.
You are.
Y'all aren't like my
favorite people in the world.
You are.
And just as much as you're
my protector, I am yours.
And the protection of folks
like us is serious business--
trademark-type serious.
And I'm happy to be in
business with you all.
Thank you.
KELVIN GREEN II: Thank
you so much, AudreyRose,
for your poignant words.
Hi.
My name is Kelvin Green II.
I'm not without words, but
the words that come to mind
are not my own, yet all mine.
If there's one thing I've
learned in fighting with
the violent reality of
racism in this country,
it is that we
cannot do it alone.
To me, this means we must
tap into the ancestors
and their wisdom.
They are those that
thought of us here and now
who knew we would
have questions,
who knew we would be
outraged, and then decided
to write so that we could read.
The word "vigil" comes
from the Latin "vigilia"
meaning wakefulness.
And where I'm
from, a good sermon
inspires a right now
sense of wakefulness.
I'm no preacher, but
ancestor Toni Morrison
wrote a sermon for us, a sermon
that demands nothing of us.
But that the only
grace we can have
is the grace we can imagine--
that if we cannot see
it, we cannot have it.
Baby Suggs is a now-dead
elderly black woman
in Toni Morrison's Beloved.
Among many other things,
she was a preacher
for the children, men, and
women in her community.
Hear me now, black people.
"Here," she said, "in
this here place, we flesh.
Flesh that weeps,
laughs, flesh that
dances on bare feet in grass.
Love it.
Love it hard.
Yonder, they do not
love your flesh.
They despise it.
They don't love your eyes.
They just as soon pick them out.
No more do they love
the skin on your back.
Yonder, they flee it."
"And oh, my people, they
do not love your hands.
Those, they only use, tie,
bind, chop off, and leave empty.
Love your hands.
Love them.
Raise them up and kiss them.
Touch others with them.
Put them together.
Stroke them on your face,
because they don't love that,
either.
You got to love it, you."
"And no, they ain't in
love with your mouth.
Yonder out there, they will see
it broken and break it again.
What you say out of
it, they will not heed.
What you scream from
it, they do not hear.
What you put into it
to nourish your body,
they will snatch away and
give you lemons instead.
No, they don't love your mouth.
You got to love it."
"This is flesh I'm
talking about here,
flesh that needs
to be loved, feet
that need to rest and to
dance, backs that need support,
shoulders that need arms--
strong arms, I'm telling you.
And oh, my people,
out yonder, hear me,
they do not love your neck
un-noosed and straight.
So love your neck.
Put a hand on it.
Grace it, stroke
it, and hold it up."
"And all your inside parts
that they'd just as soon slop
for hogs, you've
got to love them.
The dark, dark liver,
love it, love it.
And the beat, and beating
heart, love that, too.
More than eyes or
feet, more than lungs
that have yet to
draw free air, more
than your life-holding womb and
your life-giving private parts.
Hear me now, love your heart,
for this is the prize."
Thank you.
KENDYLL HICKS: Thank you Kelvin
for those powerful words.
Greetings, MIT family.
My name is Kendyll Hicks, and
I'm an outgoing BSU co-chair.
For the past week, we have
watched again and again
the slow and
methodical disregard
for a black man's life.
For eight minutes
and 46 seconds,
officer Derek Chauvin
fearlessly stared into a camera
and continued to dig his knee
into George Floyd's throat.
George lost consciousness.
The officer heard cries
saying, "You are killing him,"
and he continued to dig his
knee into George Floyd's throat.
But this isn't
about George Floyd.
This is about George Floyd,
Breonna Taylor, Dion Johnson,
Ahmaud Arbery, Tony McDade,
Philando Castile, Sandra Bland,
Tamir Rice, Eric Garner,
Walter Scott, Michael Brown,
Alton Sterling, Freddie Gray,
Tatyana Jefferson, Trayvon
Martin, and so, so many more.
My heart has ached
and my throat has
tangled for too long
for the families whose
black mothers, fathers,
brothers, sisters, sons,
and daughters, some
whose names we know
and countless others whose we
don't were treated as problems
instead of people, whose bodies
were battered by those who were
sworn to protect
them, who fell victim
to a system that
has masterminded
the murder of a people.
We are gathered here to mourn
those precious lives lost.
In mourning, I fear for my
family, my friends, loved ones,
and myself who wake up in a
country where it has always
been open season
on black bodies,
and who look in the mirror
and think today, being black
could be my death sentence.
But where do our tears go?
When will our country stop
coddling white killers?
When will our institutions
begin to truly feel our pain
and inherit our tears?
When will they realize
that not only are
we fighting for justice for
fair and humane treatment,
but we are also
fighting for our lives?
We are tired of
thoughts and prayers.
With that in mind,
MIT administration,
I would like to ask
you, do you really
care about your black
students, faculty, and staff
if you're not willing
to use your power
and resources to protect us?
When COVID-19 arrived,
MIT sprung into action,
making masks,
ventilators, diagnostics,
and pharmaceuticals.
Where does that ambition
for the public health crisis
for which we gather right now?
When vicious
immigration policies
threaten the safety and
protection of students,
MIT urged the powers
that be to make a change.
You've proved you
can do something.
But today, you're
missing in action.
And as so many have noticed,
to acknowledge and be informed
without concrete effort
is to be complicit
and to support the police
terror that's occurring.
Stand with us.
Publicly demand
the accountability
of all officers involved.
Publicly support
the demonstrations
and broader black
liberation efforts
happening across the country.
Do something.
Include us in your mandate.
Accept this problem as your
own, because we will never
achieve an equitable and
just community on campus
if our humanity is being
disregarded everywhere else.
So how do we honor lives lost?
We must listen, learn, educate,
speak up, vote, donate,
empathize, love, and
fight, because we
are the ones we have
been waiting for.
Thank you.
AIYAH JOSIAH-FAEDUWOR: Thank
you so much for that, Kendyll,
and everyone else for
all that you've offered.
My name is Aiyah
Josiah-Faeduwor.
I'm a dual-degree student
between the Department Over
Studies and Planning and Sloane.
When it comes to police
brutality and racial injustice
in the US, for me this
experience, this conversation,
and these moments are
particularly personal.
It's important to understand
that for all black people
in the US, these moments often
trigger things buried levels
deep beneath the surface.
For the sake of our communities,
for the broader community,
for the collective struggle,
for black liberation, many of us
charge ourselves with the task
of being vulnerable and doing
the spiritual, emotional, and
physical labor of excavating
these protected components
of our character,
our identity, and our experience
for something greater.
It's critical that
we all understand
the burden of this labor while
simultaneously acknowledging
that no one, not even myself
as a fellow black person
can understand and know
what another is holding
and what work was required
to bring that burden
to bear on these platforms
in such a public way,
and to have many of the
discussions we're having today.
For me, understanding George
Floyd, Breonna Taylor,
Ahmaud Arbery, and countless
other fates began at home.
As a youth growing up in
low-income communities,
in government-subsidized
housing, in neighborhoods that
were underresourced
and over-policed,
I watched every male
in my household,
which included my two
older brothers and my dad.
By the time had
turned 18, I saw each
of them taken away in
handcuffs and imprisoned
for various periods of time.
Today, one in three
black men nationally
are incarcerated at a
point in their lives.
In my life as a youth,
the statistic I knew
was three out of four,
with a high likelihood
that it'd be four of four
by the end of my life.
If not arrested
and incarcerated,
at least stopped
unjustly, at worse,
murdered under legal sanction.
I understand that this
issue has many sides,
has political nuances, has
further details, and a larger
picture.
And while that is
true, it also isn't.
None of those factors change
the fact that for me, by 18,
my biggest fear in life involved
encounters with the police,
as it's pushed myself
academically, intellectually,
and everywhere.
In other realities, my peers
in different environments
pushed themselves
out of a passion
for tinkering with
electronics, or aspirations
of traveling through space,
or making art that inspires.
Not for me.
I wanted to remain
as free and safe
from what plagued my community.
I didn't want to end up in a
predicament each role model I
had growing up fell into.
No one understand as a society
how people like me cannot grow
up with not just this
fear, but this fate.
Today, I'm here in front
of you sharing my story,
but also imploring
us all to understand
that today before policies
change, our mentality must.
Our approach must.
Our collective commitment to
the liberation of black people
must.
We have to be ready to face
the most difficult challenges.
James Baldwin says,
"Not everything faced
can be changed, but nothing can
be changed until it's faced."
We have to ask ourselves, are
we ready to hold ourselves
to this task?
Are we all ready to do our
individual and collective
parts?
I'm more hopeful about
this than I have ever been,
but I am still worried,
because the time is now,
and we need that support now.
There are black lives being
lost in these streets,
and the decisions each of us
make over the next few days
may impact the fate of our world
for the next few generations.
What will you do today?
JALEESA TRAPP: Hi.
My name is Jaleesa Trapp,
and I am a PhD student
in the Media Lab With the
Lifelong Kindergarten Research
Group.
I was asked to
give a reflection,
and I think that reflecting
is something that we do a lot.
And so instead, I think I
want to do a call to action,
because I'm black, and I
reflect on that every day.
So I want you to think about
if it feels awkward when you're
checking in on black people
in your research group,
on your staff, why
does that feel awkward?
Is that the only time that
you check in with them?
Do your students
feel comfortable
at a place like MIT?
Do we acknowledge
the history of MIT?
Do we acknowledge that
we stood on the land
of the Massachusetts that
was stolen from them?
Do we acknowledge that MIT was
created because of the slave
economy?
Why is it that when there's
a high-profile black death--
and I say high-profile because
this happens all the time--
that you have to ask
where you should donate?
Are you actively
looking for black people
to support that do
this work all the time,
black educators, black
health care professionals,
black activists that
are out on the street?
What are you doing to
educate yourself every day,
and not just when
something happens?
So that's my call
to action today.
I want you to
think about what it
is that you're doing every day.
When I walk into my lab,
are you looking at me
like I don't belong there?
When I'm on campus late
at night, and I'm leaving,
and there's a bunch
of other people,
are you looking at me funny?
Think about how
you're interacting
with people every day.
We can't change anything
at a higher level
if we don't change things
at the level that we're at.
HEATHER KONAR:
Thank you, Jaleesa.
My name is Heather Konar.
I am a communications
officer in the office
of graduate education,
and I am here this evening
with my brother Steve, a nurse
on the front lines of the COVID
epidemic, and his
wife Julie, who
are going to be helping
me sing this song today.
This is Cry No More
by Rhiannon Giddens.
[MUSIC - RHIANNON GIDDENS, "CRY
 NO MORE"]
(SINGING) First they
sold our bodies.
I can't cry no more.
Then they stole our sons.
I can't cry no no more.
Then they stole our gods--
I can't cry no more.
--and gave us new ones.
I can't cry no more.
Then they stole our beauty.
I can't cry no more.
Comfort in our skin.
I can't cry no more.
Then they gave us duty.
I can't cry no more.
And then they gave us sin.
I can't cry no more.
Then came generations that
helped to build this land.
I can't cry no more.
Bedrock of the nation was
laid with these brown hands.
I can't cry no more.
The solace of a people was
found with that new God.
I can't cry no more.
And many peaceful steeples
would guard the road be trod.
I can't cry no more.
And then they stole our solace.
I can't cry no more.
And then they stole our peace.
I can't cry no more.
With countless acts of malice
and hatred without cease.
I can't cry no more.
A foul and dirty river--
I can't cry no more.
--runs through this sacred land.
I can't cry no more.
With every act of terror--
I can't cry no more.
--they tell us where we stand.
I can't cry no more.
500 years of poison.
I can't cry no more.
500 years of grief.
I can't cry no more.
500 years of reasons--
I can't cry no more.
--to weep with disbelief.
I can't cry no more.
Our legacy is mighty.
I can't cry no more.
Can't carry this alone.
I can't cry no more.
You have to help us fight it.
I can't cry no more.
And together we'll be home.
I can't cry no more.
Then together, we'll be home.
I can't cry no more.
Then together, we'll be home.
I can't cry no more.

---

### Sandy Alexandre (An MIT Community Vigil)
URL: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tX-IIMsnaEU

Idioma: en

SANDY ALEXANDRE: My
name is Sandy Alexandre.
I am a faculty member in the
literature section here at MIT.
Thank you for being here.
I will begin my remarks.
There is a quote
by Toni Morrison
that I realize I trot
out almost every time I'm
asked to talk at MIT about
a racist incident that
has happened in the world or
more locally here on campus.
This is the quote.
"The function, the very
serious function of racism
is distraction.
It keeps you from
doing your work.
It keeps you explaining,
over and over again,
your reason for being.
Somebody says you
have no language,
and you spend 20 years
proving that you do.
Somebody says your head
isn't shaped properly,
so you have scientists working
on the fact that it is.
Somebody says you have no
art, so you dredge that up.
Somebody says you
have no kingdoms,
so you dredge that up.
None of this is necessary.
There will always
be one more thing."
End quote.
I can see now why I
liked this quote so much
and why it worked so well
for what I wanted to convey,
particularly to students,
which was basically,
please don't let racism get
in the way of what you're here
to do.
Please don't let
it drain the energy
and use up the bandwidth you
need to study, to take exams,
and to graduate.
Please don't let it
get to your head.
Please don't let
it stunt the growth
you are here to experience.
I can see how, as a teacher, I
could endorse Morrison's advice
to stay focused.
But to tell yourself that
racism is a distraction
is, in effect, a
coping mechanism.
If you're black and can say
that anti-black racism is
a mere distraction,
an annoying nuisance,
I would venture to say that
it's not because it's true.
It's because, for now,
that's what will get you
through another day.
While I certainly wouldn't want
to grudge anyone, including
myself, this coping
mechanism, this handy mantra
that racism is distraction,
the past and the present
have proven, time
and time again,
that racism is not merely
a thorn in a person's side.
It's also a suffocating
knee on a person's neck.
To graduate from the
notion that racism
is a distraction is to enter
into more advanced knowledge,
that racism is, in fact,
also a serial killer.
This is not sensationalism.
This is not hyperbole.
This is what MIT,
on any ordinary day,
would call hard data.
Because we all know
full well or we at least
can very easily
find out that racism
has killed Fred Hampton, Henry
Dumas, Amadou Diallo, Oscar
Grant, Tamir Rice, Freddie
Gray, Sandra Bland, Eric Garner,
Philando Castile, Atatiana
Jefferson, Breonna Taylor,
George Floyd, David
McAtee, and many more.
And this is only a
list of those killed
from the racism of
police brutality.
Because in between distracting
and serial-killing, wouldn't
you know, racism still also
finds time for robbing too.
It robs you of
your peace of mind,
of your dignity, your health,
your sleep, your sanity,
economic opportunities,
housing opportunities,
educational opportunities,
and your ability
to have recourse to any
real justice in the world.
Is it any wonder that
things have come to a head?
Is it any wonder that black
people are not so much angry
as they have been angered?
I don't know who
needs to hear this,
but please understand
that you effectively
turn a serial killer
into a personal henchman
when you see it destroying
communities of color
and you sit idly by, letting it
continue on its killing spree.
Please understand that
sicking in that serial killer
on your neighbor for sport
or simply because you
can will come back to bite you.
Indeed, as the past few days
have made crystal clear,
racism is everybody's
problem, so let's not
blame the victims of racism
for saying enough is enough.
Let's blame racism for
being so distracting that it
de-prioritized a whole
global pandemic--
the gall.
Let's blame racism for being
so flagrantly murderous
that it has absolutely no qualms
about being caught on camera.
For far too long, many of
us have been bearing witness
to racism's crimes.
And for even longer
than that, many of us
have been feeling the
brunt of its rampage
all over the backs and
necks of our communities.
I don't know who needs to hear
this question, but were you
there when racism
serial-killed black people?
Sometimes it causes me to
tremble, tremble, tremble.
Were you there when racism
serial-killed black people?
And if you were,
then what did you do?
So yes, let us mourn the
murder of black people,
but let us also not allow
racism to pigeonhole us
as perpetual mourners to
its perpetual atrocities.
And the only way to do that
is to stop it in its tracks
by supporting people
and organizations that
affirm the full range--
indeed, the full breadth--
of black lives and
by undernutrition
and starving white
supremacy and its minions.
That's the way we fight.
That's the way we win.
And in the meantime, to students
and community members who
are members of these
persistently besieged
communities, please turn
to the people who love you
and who help you remember to
breathe, to take a breather,
because they actually see
you and wish you well.
Their love of you matters.
Their love means the world.
Their cheering you on and
their loving up on you
means that the future we want
might actually be not only
possible, but also sustainable.
Please know that I
see you, I love you,
and that I am
cheering you on too.
Thank you.

---

### MIT President Rafael Reif (An MIT Community Vigil)
URL: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CgPPh3k0uBg

Idioma: en

RAFAEL REIF: I'm deeply
honored and humbled
to be asked to speak today.
In the face of
tragedy, it is always
important to come together.
And coming together has never
felt more important than now
when we must be so far apart.
I wish more than
anything that I could
be in person with all of you.
And I wish especially
that you could
be in person with each other.
Because it may be the
deepest human comfort
in time of suffering to
know that we are not alone.
We've come together
now because we know
and we insist that
Black lives matter,
that Black lives are worthy
and complex and inspiring,
that every Black person is
unique and beautifully human,
and that every Black
person of every age
everywhere deserves dignity
and decency and respect.
And of course, we come
together because we
know that these truths and
the basic humanity of people
of color are violated
in our nation every day.
Last week, the example
that shocked the nation
was the brutal killing
of George Floyd.
But so many have
suffered before him
over weeks and
decades and centuries.
Our nation is in
terrible trouble.
And part of the trouble
is the systemic racism
that is destroying
us from the inside.
A society that tolerates
official brutality thereby
of course encourages it.
If we hope to live in a society
that is better than its worst
impulses, we must use this awful
moment to drive and accelerate
positive change.
We must begin by insisting
on full accountability
for the officers involved
in killing Mr. Floyd.
We need to make clear
to anyone who doubts it
that the rage and anguish
unleashed by his murder
are deeply justified.
We need to support the
current protests, which
are overwhelmingly filled
with peaceful people begging
for justice and peace, and
to address systemic racism
in policy, policing,
and criminal justice.
We must press for
systemic reform.
I hope we can join together
in doing these outward things.
But we also have work
to do closer to home.
All of us who can count on the
advantages of education, money,
power, and even safety in
our homes and neighborhoods,
all of us with those
advantages benefit every day
from a society with a racist
history and a racist present.
And MIT is part of that society.
This is our community.
I believe it is a
wonderful community.
But it is our responsibility
to make it better.
So it is more
important than ever
that we accelerate
the efforts already
underway with the leadership
of our ICEO John Dozier
to develop a strategic
plan for diversity, equity,
and inclusion so
that as a community
we can live up to
our highest ideals.
I have enormous faith in and
love for the MIT community.
In our online graduation
celebration last week,
I was overwhelmed by the
images of our all-familiar life
together and of the incredible
beauty of all those faces--
faces of every
complexion, your faces--
on campus working, playing,
thinking, and making together.
It is difficult to face this
moment in our forced separation
without even the
consolation of being
able to embrace or to
wipe each other's tears.
To those of you who are
African-American or of African
descent, I know that I cannot
know what you are feeling.
But I can stand with you.
I do stand with you.
And I'm certain that the
members of the MIT community,
all of them, stand
with you, too.

---

### Kelvin Green II (An MIT Community Vigil)
URL: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g4xd27OepWo

Idioma: en

KELVIN GREEN: Hi.
My name is Kelvin
Green, the second.
I'm not without words, but
the words that come to mind
are not my own--
yet all mine.
If there's one thing I've
learned in fighting with
the violent reality of
racism in this country,
it is that we
cannot do it alone.
To me, this means we must
tap into the ancestors
and their wisdom.
They are those that
thought of us here and now
who knew we would
have questions,
who knew we would be outraged,
and then decided to write,
so that we could read.
The word vigil comes
from the Latin, virgilia,
meaning wakefulness.
And where I'm
from, a good sermon
inspires a right now
sense of wakefulness.
I'm no preacher, but ancestor
Toni Morrison wrote a sermon
for us--
a sermon that demands nothing
of us but that the only grace we
can have is the
grace we can imagine,
that if we cannot see
it, we cannot have it.
Baby Suggs is a now
dead, elderly black woman
in Toni Morrison's Beloved.
Among many other things,
she was a preacher
of the children, men, and
women in her community.
Hear me now, black people.
"Here," she said, "in
this here place we flesh.
Flesh that weeps, laughs.
Flesh that dances on
bare feet in grass.
Love it.
Love it hard.
Yonder they do not
love your flesh.
They despise it.
They don't love your eyes.
They just as soon pick them out.
No more do they love
the skin on your back.
Yonder they flay it.
And oh, my people, they
do not love your hands.
Those they only use, tie, bind,
chop off, and leave empty.
Love your hands.
Love them.
Raise them up and kiss them.
Touch others with them.
Pat them together.
Stroke them on your face because
they don't love that either.
You got to love it.
You.
And know they ain't in
love with your mouth.
Yonder-- out there--
they will see it broken
and break it again.
What you say out of
it, they will not heed.
What you scream from
it, they do not hear.
What you put into it
to nourish your body,
they will snatch away and
give you lemons instead.
No.
They don't love your mouth.
You got to love it.
This is flesh I'm
talking about here.
Flesh that needs to be loved.
Feet that need to
rest and to dance.
Backs that need support.
Shoulders that need arms.
Strong arms, I'm telling you.
And oh, my people,
out yonder, hear me.
They do not love your neck--
unnoosed and straight.
So love your neck.
Put a hand on it.
Grace it.
Stroke it and hold it up.
And all your inside
parts that they'd
just as soon slop for hogs--
you've got to love them.
The dark, dark liver--
love it.
Love it.
And the beat and beating heart--
love that, too.
More than eyes or
feet, more than lungs
that have yet to draw free air,
more than your life holding
womb and your life
giving private parts.
Hear me now, love your heart,
for this is the prize."
Thank you.

---

### Madeleine Sutherland (An MIT Community Vigil)
URL: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aKAsj5eFnc0

Idioma: en

MADELEINE SUTHERLAND:
Dear friends, I
am Madeleine Sutherland, graduate
student council president.
I am sorry to have
to address you
under these painful
circumstances
when bigotry and injustice
that plagued our past
continues to ravage
through our today.
We are gathered to mourn the
recent murders of Black Lives
including George Floyd, Brianna
Taylor, Tony McDade, Ahmaud
Arbery, and many others, and
to join the nationwide call
for not one more.
In the face of such reckless
hate and crimes so grotesque
it's hard to find
words for them,
words feel profoundly
inadequate.
These tragedies have affected
so many of us in different ways.
To the black community at
MIT and to all my colleagues
who are hurting, I offer
my friendship, support,
and solidarity.
It is important
in times like this
to remind everyone of the forms
of support available to you
to heal from all
of these events.
For example, MIT mental
health is holding appointments
via Telehealth.
Graduate students can
contact Gain and GradSupport.
Staff members can contact
MyLife Services for support.
As you go out into the world and
fight against injustice, please
remember to take care
of yourselves too.
Your well-being
matters and you are
no help to anyone burned out.
Talk to your friends.
Do things that make you joyful.
But also, [INAUDIBLE]
are more like band-aids.
We need to address the
underlying problem.
There comes a time when we
have to call evil by its name.
The anti black racism
plaguing this country
and claiming so many
lives is one such time.
As a person, I'm
grieved and angry
that some of my colleagues,
neighbors, and friends
are still not only being
made to feel unwelcome
but having to fear for their
lives when out in public.
In particular, to my
non-black colleagues,
it is important to listen to
and believe our neighbors who
have been telling us
about racism and police
brutality for years.
It shouldn't take this
very public murder for us
to pay attention.
Dr. King wrote in his letter
from a Birmingham jail,
the time is always
right to do right.
And he warned us that
without our actively
working to bring about
justice, quote "time
itself becomes an ally to the
forces of social stagnation."
And he wrote that 57 years ago.
Yet now, we find ourselves
needing to loudly affirm Black
Lives Matter because some
people and institutions have
repeatedly acted otherwise.
We must call for not one more.
Because a single life lost to
racism is infinitely too many.
So, how can we respond
to such appalling crimes
and their tremendous effect
on our friends and neighbors?
As a community, we can move from
being non-racist to actively,
explicitly anti-racist.
That starts with self education
on anti-racist practices
and listening to the
experiences of people of color.
It means learning stereotypes
that you may have learned
growing up or out in the world.
It means actively confronting
racism or bigotry when
you see it, when systems
are not equitable
and advocate for change.
In the era of
physical distancing,
we've learned that being
part of the MIT community
isn't about living
in the Boston area
or being on my team's payroll.
I believe what it
really means is
that our current struggles
against anti-blackness,
anti-Asian racism, sexism,
and all other forms of bigotry
are interdependent.
Thus we have to
learn what it really
means to hold each other up.
If you are not sure
where to start, reach out
to your friends and colleagues
who may be struggling right now
and ask, how are you
doing and what can I
do to support you right now?
Have conversations in
your lab or department
about how to confront racism
and actively bring about equity.
My commitment as
GSC president is
to struggle alongside
you in the days
to come showing up
wherever I'm needed
and advocating to make
MIT more equitable.
And to see our vision for
a truly equitable MIT that
is welcoming to all
brought to pass.
Thank you.

---

### Jaleesa Trapp (An MIT Community Vigil)
URL: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jYT4YMzVC2Y

Idioma: en

JALEESA TRAPP: Hi.
My name is Jaleesa Trapp,
and I am a PhD student
in the Media Lab with the
Lifelong Kindergarten Research
Group.
I was asked to
give a reflection.
And I think that reflecting
is something that we do a lot.
And so instead, I think I
want to do a call to action.
Because I'm Black and I
reflect on that every day.
So I want you to think about
if it feels awkward when you're
checking in on Black people
in your research group,
on your staff, why
does that feel awkward?
Is that the only time that
you check in with them?
Do your students
feel comfortable
at a place like MIT?
Do we acknowledge
the history of MIT?
Do we acknowledge that we sit
on the land of the Massachusetts
that was stolen from them?
Do we acknowledge that MIT was
created because of the slave
economy?
Why is it that when there is
a high-profile Black death--
and I say high-profile because
this happens all the time--
that you have to ask
where you should donate?
Are you actively
looking for Black people
to support that do
this work all the time,
Black educators, Black
health care professionals,
Black activists that
are out on the street?
What are you doing to
educate yourself every day,
and not just when
something happens?
So that's my call
to action today.
I want you to
think about what it
is that you're doing every day.
When I walk into my lab,
are you looking at me
like I don't belong there?
When I'm on campus late
at night and I'm leaving
and there's a bunch
of other people,
are you looking at me funny?
Think about how
you're interacting
with people every day.
We can't change anything
at a higher level
if we don't change things
at the level that we're at.

---

### Kendyll Hicks (An MIT Community Vigil)
URL: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rWNiuInKpHw

Idioma: en

KENDYLL HICKS:
Greetings, MIT family.
My name is Kendyll Hicks, and
I'm an outgoing BSU co-chair.
For the past week, we have
watched again and again
the slow and
methodical disregard
for a Black man's life.
For eight minutes
and 46 seconds,
officer Derek Chauvin
fearlessly stared into a camera
and continued to dig his knee
into George Floyd's throat.
George lost consciousness.
The officer heard cries
saying, you are killing him.
And he continued to dig his
knee into George Floyd's throat.
But this isn't
about George Floyd.
This is about George Floyd,
Brianna Taylor, Dion Johnson,
Ahmaud Arbery, Tony McDade,
Philando Castile, Sandra Bland,
Tamir Rice, Eric Garner,
Walter Scott Michael Brown,
Alton Sterling, Freddie Gray,
Atatiana Jefferson, Trayvon
Martin, and so, so many more.
My heart has ached and my
throat has tangled for too long
for the families whose Black
mothers, fathers, brothers,
sisters, sons, and daughters--
some whose names we know
and countless others
whose we don't--
we're treated as problems
instead of people, whose bodies
were battered by those who
were sworn to protect them,
who fell victim to a system
that has masterminded
the murder of a people.
We are gathered here to mourn
those precious lives lost.
In mourning, I fear for my
family, my friends, loved ones,
and myself who wake up in a
country where it has always
been open season on Black bodies
and who look in the mirror
and think, today, being Black
could be my death sentence.
But where do our tears go?
When will our country stop
coddling white killers?
When will our institutions
begin to truly feel our pain
and inherit our tears?
When will they realize
that not only are
we fighting for justice for
their inhumane treatment
but we are also
fighting for our lives?
We are tired of
thoughts and prayers.
With that in mind,
MIT administration,
I would like to ask
you, do you really
care about your Black
students, faculty, and staff
if you're not willing
to use your power
and resources to protect us?
When COVID-19 arrived,
MIT sprung into action,
making masks,
ventilators, diagnostics,
and pharmaceuticals.
Where is that ambition for
the public health crisis
for which we gather right now?
When vicious
immigration policies
threatened the safety and
protection of students,
MIT urged the powers
that be to make a change.
You've proved you
can do something.
But today, you're
missing in action.
And as so many have noticed,
to acknowledge and be informed
without concrete effort
is to be complicit
and to support the police
terror that's occurring.
Stand with us.
Publicly demand
the accountability
of all officers involved.
Publicly support
the demonstrations
and broader Black
liberation efforts
happening across the country.
Do something.
Include us in your mandate.
Accept this problem as your
own, because we will never
achieve an equitable and
just community on campus
if our humanity is being
disregarded everywhere else.
So how do we honor lives lost?
We must listen, learn, educate,
speak up, vote, donate,
empathize, love, and fight.
Because we are the ones
we have been waiting for.
Thank you.

---

### Malick Ghachem (An MIT Community Vigil)
URL: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XHIzAlL0UQs

Idioma: en

MALICK GHACHEM: My
name is Malick Ghachem.
Good evening, everybody.
I'm a member of the
MIT history faculty,
and I'm also a
criminal defense lawyer
who works and teaches
in the area of race
and criminal justice.
It is profoundly
discouraging to consider
that who gets to breathe
in America in 2020
is a matter of race.
We have seen that this
is true in relation
to the COVID-19 pandemic
in recent months,
and the murderer of
George Floyd shows
that it is also true in relation
to our policing practices,
which must change
in radical ways.
Such change will require
white Americans, and indeed
all of us, to make sacrifices of
the kind we have been generally
willing to make in
the face of COVID-19
but seem unwilling to make in
the face of structural racism.
And that is because policing
practices are so deeply
embedded in our
economic organization
and how we think about
cities and property
in longstanding doctrines of
criminal law and procedure,
and many other factors too
numerous to mention here.
If you can muster the fortitude
to watch the extended video
of the murder of George
Floyd, you will see that
at the very end, well after
the police have command
of the scene and
done their damage,
the team of emergency
medical personnel
from the fire department
arrives to try to save Floyd.
I do not know whether overcoming
police brutality requires
the wholesale abolition
of police departments,
as some have argued
in recent days.
But if we had police
departments that
acted more like
fire departments--
that is, seeking to
heal or to put out fires
rather than to apply force
and escalate tension--
we would almost certainly
be in a better place.
This past week I
received an email
from [? Kaije ?] Johnson, who
is a junior at the Peabody
institute, which is the music
conservatory of the Johns
Hopkins University in Baltimore.
And he wrote me as
follows, quote, "It
saddens me to see the
divide between the leaders
of this country and
their citizens of color
continue to grow as weeks go by.
Each day I grow more afraid
of the world we live in
and more afraid of
the people I believe
are supposed to protect me.
I believe there needs to
be a change in the system,
I believe the voices of
America's black and brown
citizens need to be heard and
their messages taken to heart.
I believe it is
time for a united
front against the injustices
that plague our communities.
Though I know these
things are necessary,
I have no clue where
to begin," unquote.
And so he asked me, with
your knowledge of the past
and your knowledge
of the present, what
is the most effective way
for young people in 2020
to present a united front
and achieve results,
as our ancestors did during
the Civil Rights movement?
And so what I want to
do is share with you
a modified version
of what I wrote back
to [? Kaije. ?] For
starters, I urged
him to make music
that would capture
this moment and his
feelings about it.
Justice Corbin has
just made some poetry
that captures this
moments very well
and his own feelings about it.
I told [? Kaije ?] that he
could help to mobilize people
of color to vote in
the November elections
and that he could work to
make his own institution
resemble the kind of
country he wants to see.
But [? Kaije ?] was
particularly interested
in what the past could teach
us, and so I told him also
that change happens in both
small and large scales,
and that we don't
really understand what
happens on the large scale.
No historian or sociologist
at MIT or elsewhere
has yet developed a scientific
model of the intersecting
forces that make for something
as big as the Civil Rights
revolution of the
1950s and '60s.
Some observers of the
opening days, weeks, and even
months of the French
and Haitian revolutions
were aware that they were living
through a very unusual time,
but none of them
could have foreseen
the scope of what was to
come, and not all of them
would have liked what
they were going to see.
For example, the
free people of color
who mobilize for
political rights
at the start of the
Haitian Revolution
were entirely unaware that
their claims would set in motion
a process that would lead
to the abolition of slavery,
a result few of them
sought because many of them
were themselves slave holders.
The violent white
mob that destroyed
the property of the British East
India company in Boston harbor
in 1773 was unaware
that it was setting
in motion the
American Revolution,
which upset almost every notion
of law and order then prevalent
in the British empire.
There is no catechism
for revolution.
Every large-scale change is the
product of many small changes.
Looking back at the
French Revolution
in the middle of
the 19th century
the French political philosopher
Alexis de Tocqueville
wrote that he saw more
continuity than change
at the end of it.
He would have recognized
the American dilemma
with racism, which seems
to hold constant even when
it is said to be changing.
But even Tocqueville may
have undersold the role
of continuity in a revolution.
Making an impact almost always
involves working in teams.
Teamwork means looking
for the particular gifts
the different individuals
bring to the table.
It also means learning to rely
on others when your own energy
and availability begin to fade.
A social movement of the kind
that [? Kaije ?] is thinking
of almost certainly needs
something like a business
continuity plan this
is arguably what
was missing when the
Arab Spring of 2011
faded into the Arab winter.
And finally, I urged
[? Kaije ?] to remember
the lessons he learns
under the COVID-19 lockdown
so that when
residential university
life in normal economic
activity resume,
he could find ways to
stand up for these lessons
when he encounters others trying
to slip back into old habits
and patterns, as they
and we undoubtedly will.
We can remember, for
example, that people
are in fact capable of
making great sacrifices
and undertaking
great risks, but also
that the distribution of
sacrifice and risk in America
is very uneven.
How to figure out the right mix
of compassion and confrontation
that will move others
to level the playing
field before the
next crisis hits
is a difficult balancing
act especially so
for people of color.
But increasingly,
it seems that we
will need more of an
appetite and tolerance
for productive confrontation
in this new era,
and so I told [? Kaije ?]
to cultivate both the skill
and the art of that practice.
Thank you.

---

### Romona Allen (An MIT Community Vigil)
URL: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-dPp-a0xwcc

Idioma: en

RAMONA ALLEN: My
name is Ramona Allen,
and I'm the vice president
for human resources at MIT.
Some of us, we are at
a familiar crossroads.
Familiar because as
a person of color,
violence has impacted
our experiences
and our family histories in this
country since its inception.
Like a virus, racism
mutates and changes,
but leads to a national
sickness marked
by widespread economic,
political, and social
inequalities.
As a child growing up
in segregated Boston,
I had eggs thrown at me.
My school bus was regularly
stoned and shot at.
I had no choice
but to keep moving,
so these traumas were
never really addressed.
But these are collective,
deep-seated, historical traumas
that are now manifesting
on the streets.
It's exhausting to be a person
of color in this country.
And quite frankly, we are tired.
I'm tired of imagining my
husband, family, and friends--
people who look like George
Floyd and Breonna Taylor--
facing a criminal legal
system that does not
recognize their fundamental
worth and humanity,
and deeply disheartened
and disappointed
by the ways in which the
lives of people of color
have been devalued
over and over again.
This is quite a
heavy burden to bear.
Black men, women, and
trans lives matter.
And this shouldn't have to
be a point of discussion.
Fortunately, we convene
today as members
of a community of teaching,
learning, and innovation.
We draw strength from
knowing that at MIT, we
continue to be committed
to educating students
in ways that will serve
the nation and the world.
Watching commencement just a
few days ago warmed my heart,
left me feeling
encouraged and inspired.
I am and inspired by
our staff our faculty,
who in countless ways
demonstrate their brilliance,
thoughtfulness, and kindness.
You just heard that
from Sandy, and Malik,
and the other students
that were here.
I'm counting on you all.
My expectations for this
community are extremely high.
We have the best and
the brightest minds
here, so we need to lead
the country from Cambridge,
the way we do in every
other way that makes
MIT a place of excellence.
Innovation, imagination, and
creativity are part of our DNA,
and we must use
these strengths to be
part of envisioning new ways
to be together as a community.
At this particular crossroads,
we must take action, and now.
No more waiting.
Educate yourself.
Raise awareness.
Sign petitions.
Donate to bail funds.
Support our activists.
Protest.
Vote.
We need all people involved--
not just people of color, but
all people to fight for change.
If you are experiencing a
new level of consciousness,
just embrace it,
because we need you.
We need changes in laws,
behaviors, and hiring
practices.
We need to create
greater opportunity
for people from
marginalized communities
to access education.
And finally, we need to hold
each other accountable for that
change.
Ask your peers what they
are doing to enact change.
We must harness the strengths
of our diverse campus community,
and in the spirit of
our mission statement,
bring knowledge to bear on
one of the world's greatest
challenges.
By working together,
let's lead the way, MIT.
We're calling on you
to do that, and all
of the members of this
community to step up and let's
get this done.
Thank you.

---

### "Cry No More" Performed by Heather Konar (An MIT Community Vigil)
URL: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-JEutL0E_GU

Idioma: en

INTERVIEWER: My name
is Heather Konar.
I am a communications
officer in the Office
of Graduate Education.
I am here this evening
with my brother
Steve, the nurse on the front
lines of the COVID epidemic,
and his wife Julie, who
are going to be helping
me sing this song today.
This is Cry No More
by Rhiannon Giddens.
(SINGING) Hmm.
[BEATING DRUM]
First they stole our bodies.
INTERVIEWER 2 AND 3:
(SINGING) I can't cry no more.
HEATHER KONAR: (SINGING)
Then they stole our sons.
INTERVIEWER 2 AND 3:
(SINGING) I can't cry no more.
HEATHER KONAR: (SINGING)
Then they stole our gods.
INTERVIEWER 2 AND 3:
(SINGING) I can't cry no more.
HEATHER KONAR: (SINGING)
And gave us new ones.
INTERVIEWER 2 AND 3:
(SINGING) I can't cry no more.
HEATHER KONAR: (SINGING)
Then they stole our beauty--
INTERVIEWER 2 AND 3: (SINGING)
I can't cry now more.
HEATHER KONAR: (SINGING)
--the comfort in our skin.
INTERVIEWER 2 AND 3:
(SINGING) I can't cry no more.
HEATHER KONAR: (SINGING)
Then they gave us duty.
INTERVIEWER 2 AND 3:
I can't cry no more.
HEATHER KONAR: (SINGING)
And then they gave us sin.
INTERVIEWER 2 AND 3:
(SINGING) I can't cry no more.
HEATHER KONAR: (SINGING)
Then came generations--
INTERVIEWER 2 AND 3:
(SINGING) I can't cry no more.
HEATHER KONAR: (SINGING) --that
helped to build this land.
INTERVIEWER 2 AND 3:
(SINGING) I can't cry no more.
HEATHER KONAR: (SINGING)
Bedrock of the nation--
INTERVIEWER 2 AND 3:
(SINGING) I can't cry no more.
HEATHER KONAR: (SINGING) --was
laid with these brown hands.
INTERVIEWER 2 AND 3:
(SINGING) I can't cry no more.
HEATHER KONAR: (SINGING)
The solace of a people--
INTERVIEWER 2 AND 3:
(SINGING) I can't cry no more.
HEATHER KONAR: (SINGING)
--was found with that new god.
INTERVIEWER 2 AND 3:
(SINGING) I can't cry no more.
HEATHER KONAR: (SINGING)
And many peaceful steeples--
INTERVIEWER 2 AND 3:
(SINGING) I can't cry no more.
HEATHER KONAR: (SINGING)
--would guide the road we trod.
INTERVIEWER 2 AND 3:
(SINGING) I can't cry no more.
HEATHER KONAR: (SINGING) And
then they stole our solace.
INTERVIEWER 2 AND 3:
(SINGING) I can't cry no more.
HEATHER KONAR: (SINGING) And
then they stole our peace--
INTERVIEWER 2 AND 3:
(SINGING) I can't cry no more.
HEATHER KONAR: (SINGING) --with
countless acts of malice--
INTERVIEWER 2 AND 3:
(SINGING) I can't cry no more.
HEATHER KONAR: (SINGING)
--and hatred without cease.
INTERVIEWER 2 AND 3:
(SINGING) I can't cry no more.
HEATHER KONAR: (SINGING)
A foul and dirty river--
INTERVIEWER 2 AND 3:
(SINGING) I can't cry no more.
HEATHER KONAR: (SINGING) --runs
through this sacred land.
INTERVIEWER 2 AND 3:
(SINGING) I can't cry no more.
HEATHER KONAR: (SINGING)
With every act of terror--
INTERVIEWER 2 AND 3:
(SINGING) I can't cry no more.
HEATHER KONAR: (SINGING)
--they tell us where we stand.
INTERVIEWER 2 AND 3:
(SINGING) I can't cry no more.
HEATHER KONAR: (SINGING)
500 years of poison--
INTERVIEWER 2 AND 3:
(SINGING) I can't cry no more.
HEATHER KONAR: (SINGING)
500 years of grief.
INTERVIEWER 2 AND 3:
(SINGING) I can't cry no more.
HEATHER KONAR: (SINGING)
500 years of reasons--
INTERVIEWER 2 AND 3:
(SINGING) I can't cry no more.
HEATHER KONAR: (SINGING)
--to weep with disbelief.
INTERVIEWER 2 AND 3:
(SINGING) I can't cry no more.
HEATHER KONAR: (SINGING)
Our legacy is mighty.
INTERVIEWER 2 AND 3: (SINGING)
We can't cry no more.
HEATHER KONAR: (SINGING)
We can't carry this alone.
INTERVIEWER 2 AND 3: (SINGING)
We can't cry no more.
HEATHER KONAR: (SINGING) You
have to help us fight it--
INTERVIEWER 2 AND 3: (SINGING)
We can't cry no more.
HEATHER KONAR: (SINGING)
--and together we'll be home.
INTERVIEWER 2 AND 3: (SINGING)
We can't cry no more.
HEATHER KONAR: (SINGING)
Then together we'll be home.
INTERVIEWER 2 AND 3: (SINGING)
We can't cry no more.
HEATHER KONAR: (SINGING)
Then together we'll be home.
INTERVIEWER 2 AND 3: (SINGING)
We can't cry no more.

---

### Aiyah Josiah-Faeduwor (An MIT Community Vigil)
URL: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I8XpmTbwZG4

Idioma: en

My name is Aiyah
Josiah-Faeduwor.
I'm a dual degree student
between the Department
of Urban Studies and
Planning and Sloane.
When it comes to police
brutality and racial injustice
in the US, for me, this
experience, this conversation,
and these moments are
particularly personal.
It's important to understand
that for all black people
in the US, these moments often
trigger things buried levels
deep beneath the surface.
For the sake of our communities,
for the broader community,
for the collective struggle for
black liberation, many of us
charge ourselves with the task
of being vulnerable and doing
the spiritual, emotional, and
physical labor of excavating
these protected components
of our character,
our identity, and our experience
for something greater.
It's critical that
we all understand
the burden of this labor, while
simultaneously acknowledging
that no one, not even myself
as a fellow black person,
can understand and know
what another is holding
and what work was required
to bring that burden
to bear on these platforms
in such a public way
and to have many of the
discussions we're having today.
For me, understanding George
Floyd, Brianna Taylor,
Ahmaud Arbery, and countless
other fates began at home.
As a youth growing up in
low-income communities,
in government-subsidized
housing,
in neighborhoods that
were under-resourced
and over-policed, I watched
every male in my household--
which included my two
older brothers and my dad.
By the time I had
turned 18, I saw
each of them taken
away in handcuffs
and imprisoned for
various periods of time.
Today, 1 in 3 black
men nationally
are incarcerated at a
point in their lives.
In my life as a youth,
the statistic I knew
was 3 out of 4, with a high
likelihood that I'd be 4 of 4
by the end of my life--
if not arrested
and incarcerated,
at least stopped
unjustly and, at worst,
murdered under legal sanction.
I understand that this
issue has many sides,
has political nuances, has
further details and a larger
picture.
And while that is
true, it also isn't.
None of those factors
change the fact
that for me, by 18, my
biggest fear in life involved
encounters with the police.
I just pushed myself
academically, intellectually,
and everywhere.
In other realities, my peers
in different environments
pushed themselves
out of a passion
for tinkering with
electronics, or aspirations
of traveling through space
or making art that inspires.
Not for me.
I wanted to remain
as free and safe
from what plagued my community.
I didn't want to end up in a
predicament each role model I
had growing up fell into.
And I wanted to
understand, as a society,
how people like me cannot grow
up with not just this fear,
but this fate.
Today, I'm here in front
of you sharing my story,
but also imploring us all
to understand that today,
before policies change,
our mentality must.
Our approach must.
Our collective commitment to
the liberation of black people
must.
We have to be ready to face
the most difficult challenges.
James Baldwin says, "Not
everything that's faced
can be changed, but nothing can
be changed until it's faced."
We have to ask ourselves, are
we ready to hold ourselves
to this task?
Are we all ready to do our
individual and collective
parts?
I'm more hopeful about
this than I have ever been,
but I am still worried,
because the time is now.
And we need that support now.
There are Black Lives being
lost in these streets,
and the decisions each of us
make over the next few days
may impact the fate of our world
for the next few generations.
What will you do today?

---

### DiOnetta Jones Crayton (An MIT Community Vigil)
URL: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kWQrVD3KAOU

Idioma: en

DIONETTA JONES CRAYTON:
Good afternoon, everyone.
My name is DiOnetta Jones
Crayton, associate dean
and director of the MIT
office of minority education.
And I'm also an
associate minister
at Morningstar Baptist Church
here in the Boston area.
We are in the
middle of a crisis.
And I think that
we can all agree
that this goes far beyond
the threat posed by COVID-19.
The charge I have today is to
offer some remarks, some words
of encouragement, if you will,
and to lead us into prayer
and a moment of silence.
Please allow me to share some
very personal thoughts with you
as part of my remarks.
I don't consider myself
to be a radical activist.
In fact, throughout
my life and career,
I believe that God
has always called
me to serve to lead
and influence change
from within systems
and institutions
rather than from the outside.
I negotiate and fight the good
fight at the boardroom table.
I meet with key leaders.
I bring advocacy
groups together.
I help develop
programs and services
that address inequities.
I speak at public forums.
I stand firm in my convictions.
And I will unwaveringly
speak truth to power.
Yet for a very long
time, I secretly
felt that I was not the
right kind of activist.
For many years, I believed
that those courageous sisters
and brothers, those brave
enough to lead protests,
those brave enough to fight
for what is right and radical
and even disruptive
ways, those who
were willing to sacrifice
all for what they believed
was right even to
the point of death,
I believed that they were
and are the true warriors,
the fearless.
And there is enough
evidence based
on the lives of civil
and human rights
activists past and present
to suggest that all of this
is true.
But today, I have a
different worldview view
than I did in my
30s in this regard.
I have a heightened awareness.
Today, I know and I understand
that both approaches.
All approaches are needed to
influence positive change.
We can all be warriors so we can
all be drum major for justice
in our own spaces, in our
own spheres of influence.
We need those called to serve
and change systems from within.
And we also need those called
to shake the walls the ceilings
and the very foundations of
oppressive policies and systems
from without.
We need both.
We needed Martin and Malcolm.
We need Jesse and Al.
We needed president Kennedy.
And we still need
President Barack Obama.
We needed Nelson Mandela
and Petey Greene.
We need it Shirley
Chisholm and we still
need Dr. Shirley Ann Jackson.
We needed Angela Davis and we
need folks like Ava DuVernay.
And we still need those
three powerful women
who started the Black
Lives Matter movement.
Today, we need
every one who says
they care not just to
care, but to do their part
to fight the injustices that
threaten to destroy us all.
That threaten to destroy
people who look like me.
So what am I saying here?
I'm saying that it's
time for all of us
to gain a heightened awareness.
And more importantly,
it's time for each of us
to stand up and
walk in our calling,
because no matter who
you are or where you are,
if you say you care about
the injustices in this nation
and in this world, you
have a role to play.
You don't have to do what I do,
I don't have to do what you do,
but we all have to do something.
See, injustice anywhere is still
a threat to justice everywhere.
And whatever affects
one directly still
affects us all indirectly.
As a woman of color, and as
a black woman specifically,
I am scared for every black
man, woman, and child.
I fear for the lives of
people of color and even
as an administrator at MIT.
I'm afraid for our
students sometimes.
I sincerely desire
to take care of
and protect every single
one of our students,
not just from the outside
world, but also from some
of the inequities they may
face inside our hallowed halls
of MIT.
Yet I believe there
is still hope.
As a woman of faith,
I still have hope.
On July 13, 2016,
some of you will
remember that I spoke
to the MIT community
in a forum much like this
on a day much like today.
And just four years later, I
am sitting here on a Zoom call
beseeching all of us to do our
part to end this injustice,
to stop the violence
against black men and women,
and all marginalized
populations.
MIT, we have to do our part.
We must.
Now is the acceptable time.
And today is the
day of salvation.
So as we bow our heads
and humble our hearts
and go into a word of
prayer, we ask for God
to compel our hearts to act.
Dear God, we are hurting.
We are angry.
We are numb.
We are tired.
Ease our pain, soothe
our weary souls,
and give us the
spirit of resilience.
Transform the minds of those who
live with hate in their hearts
and embolden those who welcome
love to use their power
and their privilege for
the good of all humanity.
Dear God, we are tired,
but we will not give up.
We still refuse to believe
that this nation is
incapable of rising
above its current state.
We can have peace and
we will have freedom.
So call on all of us,
call each and every person
under the sound of my voice
to walk in their purpose.
Remind us that we must all
be willing to do our part.
Let no one sit idly by while
murder happens in our streets.
Instead, let us all
rise up unafraid.
Let us rise up in
spite of the ache
that is inside of us for we
are hard pressed on every side,
but we are not crushed.
We are perplexed, but
we are not in despair.
We may be persecuted,
but we are not abandoned.
And we may be struck down,
but we are not destroyed.
And we are not going anywhere.
So Lord, pick us up.
Wipe us off.
Mend our hearts.
Join us together
in unity and love.
Heal our land, dear
God, so that one day,
there will truly be liberty
and justice for all.
Please join me in
a moment of silence
as we remember George Floyd.
We remember Tony McDade,
Ahmad Aubrey, Shaun Reid,
Breona Taylor, Tamir Rice,
Trayvon Martin, Oscar grant.
We remember Eric
Gardner, Michael Brown,
Philando Castile, Samuel
Dubose, Sandra Bland.
We remember Walter
Scott, Terence Crutcher.
We remember them
and so many others
who lost their lives
to senseless violence.
We remember so we do not forget.
And we honor them with
this moment of silence.
MIT, now is the acceptable time.
Today is the day of salvation.
What will you do to
help save us all?
Because believe me,
we all need saving.
I love you all.
God bless you.
And thank you.

---

### Corban Swain (An MIT Community Vigil)
URL: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8-zsH-bY1u8

Idioma: en

CORBAN SWAIN: My name is Corban.
I'm a third year PhD
student in bioengineering.
And this isn't part of
what I planned to say,
but John mentioned
being a father.
And one of my brothers in
the faith that I was talking
to yesterday was telling me
that his daughter heard about--
six years old--
heard about what happened in
news, community conversation.
She was asking about what is
racism, what does it mean.
And the parents told her.
And the next day, he
asked his daughter,
what was your favorite thing,
what was the thing that
made you happy today?
And she says, that
you came home safe.
No six-year-old should
have to be concerned
for the rest of her
life about the safety
and life of her father because
of the color of his skin.
So when we talk about
injustice, it's not just system,
it's not just incident,
it's not just the video.
It's children.
It's lives.
It's people.
It's a lifetime of
trauma and mindset
that we have to adapt to.
So there's a tendency
to distance ourselves
from these events going
on in the country.
There's the news over
here, then there's
our personal lives over here.
However, today and many days
for black folks, that separation
is not there.
The things we see in a
video or on the continuum
of our lived experience.
And as hard as it is to
admit, the modern day lynching
of George Floyd is on the
continuum of our experiences
with inequities in education,
representation, and the student
body and faculty of MIT.
As hard as it is to
admit, the protests
on the streets of more than
140 cities across America
and their documented
sabotage by incendiary groups
is on the continuum of
the Black History Month
installation in lobby 7 in
2019 and its desecration
with symbols of hate.
In the same way that
survivors of assault
can be triggered by seeing their
perpetrator, as black people
we are triggered and traumatized
recalling the ongoing assault
devaluation and death whenever
we see our perpetrator, racism,
in all of its many forms.
So I'm going to do
two short poems.
This first poem is an email that
was sent on February 21, 2020
to members of an MIT
residential floor community
to advertise a party.
The email repeated the
phrase, average black male,
around five foot six, wearing
a blue backpack nine times
jokingly referencing a police
description of a suspected dorm
intruder.
Now though an apology was made
for black folks on campus,
this was unfortunately
another example
of how we were not welcome.
Triggered and traumatized.
In this poem, I
replace each instance
of the phrase, which I'll show
in bold, average black male,
five foot six, wearing
a blue backpack to shape
a narrative about the struggle
for inclusivity and security
of black students on campus.
I speak out of a love for
a community in a place
that I call to action for
the flourishing of all.
Thank you for listening.
On campus security.
You're walking in the halls.
There's no one around
and the lights are out.
Out of the corner of
your eye you spot it--
racism.
It's following you.
About zero feet back.
It gets down on all fours
and breaks into a sprint.
It's gaining on you, concealed
as an honest mistake,
an unvetted email.
You're looking for your room.
But you've locked yourself out.
It's almost upon you now and
you can see there's its face.
On its face, my god,
its face is everywhere
running for your life
from the empty promise
of diversity and inclusion.
It's louder than the pipes.
You're not welcome here!
Lurking in the shadows.
Recurrent door surfer sloshing
from the streets of America
onto the halls of MIT.
Living in the basement.
William Barton Rogers and the
enslaved people his family
owned, searching for Nellie.
Because only a student ID
can unthug the black man.
Put it on a slingshot,
actual cannonball ball,
because iron skin
too thick to let this
come between me and my degree.
Now it's dark.
And you seem to have lost
it, but you're hopelessly
lost yourself.
Stranded with a stranger,
you creep silently
through the trash chute.
Aha, in the distance, a small
hatch with the light on, hope.
You move stealthily toward
it, but your leg, ah, it's
caught in our shit.
Gnawing off your
leg, quiet, quiet.
Limping to the hive
mind, quiet, quiet.
Now you're at our party.
Sitting inside a lie
instead of a home.
So thank you for listening.
This next poem is
a call to action.
It's a call to action.
The Movement.
There's a movement in us as
beaten, as broken, as kindred,
once stolen.
There is a movement in us.
All starved and choked,
in endless woke.
There is a movement in us.
Like tears, forcibly
held back, allowed
to see through the
eyes, but never
able to change their
gaze, finally pushing out
of the tear ducts,
streaming around the plump
cheeks of a smiling
face of their country.
The tears crash into the ground
and they cry out, Lord, speak!
America, he says,
will you join hands
with the tree that
grows watered by tears?
Will you be cut by her bark
to be healed of your fears?
Will you see power and
injustice as sins held too dear?
Will you say to the tree,
live free and live here?
There's a movement in her
with a joined at the side,
or left hanging, left dry.
There is a movement in her,
all earth and crown, crimson
and brown.
We are the movement, for sure.
Tired of mourning.
Unseen, We march to the
mourning of a dream.
There is a move in the hearts.
There is a move of the mind.
There is a move by the spirit.
So the only word I
can find is move!
Move from your pockets with
your voices on your feet!
The ancestors call to us, move!
Thank you.

---

### Danielle Geathers (An MIT Community Vigil)
URL: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ddf7JFuveXI

Idioma: en

DANIELLE GEATHERS:
Hello, everyone.
My name is Danielle
Geathers, and I'm
the president of the
Undergraduate Association also
known as the UA.
On behalf of the UA, I
want to thank all of you
for attending this vigil.
I also want to
thank the Institute
for providing this space for us
all to grieve as a community.
As a black woman, my heart is
heavy, heavy not only because
of the persistent racist
attacks on black lives, which
are exacerbated by the
disproportionate impact
of COVID-19, but my
heart is further burdened
with the abject pain that
accompanies the prevalent
normalcy surrounding black
death and the vulnerability
of black lives.
Tonight, our MIT
community gathers together
to mourn the brutal deaths
of George Floyd, Tony McDade,
Ahmaud Arbery, and
Breonna Taylor,
the most recent examples of
murders with which we are all
too familiar, contributing
to the growing
disillusionment of justice.
The pattern of these murders
dates back centuries,
even before my
grandfather was born.
Yet my heart remains heavy
with the generational pain
that belies our presence
in the 21st century.
We are suffering from a
multi-generational fracture.
The bone was never properly set.
And substantial
healing never occurred.
Today, we see the
latest inflammation
of that initial injury,
a visible display
of a prolonged injustice
which has lingered
beneath the surface since
before our country's
founding, a foundational
part of American history.
As an institute, MIT opened
its doors to black students
early on.
Nevertheless, large numbers did
not come until the past half
century.
Even today, many black students
don't feel fully supported
by the Institute.
We cannot ignore the systems
in place perpetuating this
feeling.
An overt act of hate is simply
one manifestation of racism.
We cannot solely denounce hate.
But we must be vigilantly
aware of its cousins--
privilege, ignorance,
and apathy.
We must improve our ability
to be a place of opportunity
and to reverse the
existential threats that
confront all of us.
As Angela Davis noted,
now, more than ever,
it is imperative
that we cultivate
a culture of anti-racism.
Race-neutral policies have
proven severely inadequate.
We should all listen to the
strong and inspiring members
of our MIT community tonight.
These experiences can
inform our collective action
for a more inclusive MIT.
Thank you.

---

### John H. Dozier (An MIT Community Vigil)
URL: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Usfh8yBwm28

Idioma: en

JOHN DOZIER: As I
mentioned earlier
I'm located in Columbia,
South Carolina.
In fact, I was born
and raised in the home
that I'm in right now, a home
in which our children are
the fifth generation in
my family to be raised.
Growing up in this context has
given me a great appreciation
for history.
Certainly, my own
family history,
which itself is marked
with tremendous struggle
and relative privilege, but
also, the history of my home
state in the southeast more
broadly over the decades, much
of which remains untold.
In fact, it was on
February 15, 1947
in Greenville, South
Carolina a white cab
driver named Thomas Brown was
robbed and stabbed to death.
The Sheriff reported that muddy
footprints at the crime scene
led them to the house of Willie
Earl, an African-American man.
The house was about a mile away.
Based on circumstantial
evidence,
Mr. Earl was arrested at his
mother's house the next day
and taken to the county jail.
That evening, a mob
went to the jail
and took him, without
resistance from the jailer,
beat, stabbed, and
shot him to death
more than 150 suspects
were questioned
and 31 were charged
with the crime.
Many of the men signed
confessions and some implicated
the mob's leader as well as
the person who shot the killer.
On May 21 of that
same year, a jury
acquitted all defendants
on all counts.
Fast forward to December 2,
1975 in Montgomery, Alabama.
Renard Whitehurst Jr
was shot and killed
by a police officer who said
that he thought Whitehurst
was the suspect in the robbery
of a neighborhood grocery
store.
Police officers
planted a gun near him
to ensure that the
official narrative would
be self-defense.
However, that narrative was
disputed by other officers
at the scene.
There was no autopsy and
Mr. Whitehurst's body
was quickly embalmed before
his family was contacted.
Six months later,
an investigation
by the local newspaper
and the local attorney
led the body to being exhumed
and an autopsy being performed,
which showed that Mr. Whitehurst
had been shot in the back.
Eight police officers
were forced to resign
or were terminated.
However, no one was
convicted of a crime.
Fast forward again to March 13,
2020 in Louisville, Kentucky.
26-year-old Breona Taylor
was shot and killed
by police officers who entered
her apartment while serving
a no knock warrant.
The warrant stemmed
from an investigation
centered on two people who
were already in police custody
and suspected of selling
drugs from a house that
was more than 10 miles
away from where she lived.
One of the people in custody
had a prior relationship
with Ms. Taylor the search
warrant included her residence
because it was suspected
of receiving drugs
and because her car
was registered and seen
parked on several occasions in
front of the suspect's house.
However, no drugs were
found in her apartment.
I contrast these
horrific incidents
against the June 17, 2015 mass
murder of nine black people
during a Bible study at
Mother Emanuel Church
in Charleston, South Carolina.
Video footage identified
Dylann Roof, a white male.
The following morning,
he was arrested
in Shelby North Carolina.
When arrested, he wasn't
even placed on the ground.
Rather, while in custody, he
complained about being hungry,
and the officers took
him to Burger King
and bought him a meal.
Our history is replete
with examples like the ones
that I've shared, including the
more recent killings of Tony
McDade of Tallahassee, Florida,
George Floyd of Minneapolis,
Minnesota, and Ahmad Aubrey
of Glynn County, Georgia.
What has happened is not simply
the results of a few bad people
doing bad things.
Rather, it speaks to the
systemic dehumanizing
and undervaluing of black
lives born out of slavery,
reinforced by Jim Crow law,
and promoted even today
by media stereotypes.
I'm here as a black
man, son, husband,
and a father who is in deep pain
from watching history repeat
itself over and over again.
I'm a black man who lives
in deep concern and fear
that my education and whatever
privilege that I may have
for being so deeply connected
to my own family history
may not be enough to
stop me or any member
of my extended family,
friends or members
of the community that raised
me, from having a similar fate.
I'm also here as an active
member of my community
and an administrator who
understands that while we
cannot legislate love, we can
and must legislate the hateful
dehumanizing actions of those
who are unwilling to check
their biases.
I stand in support of
peaceful protesters insisting
on accountability and
the recent killings.
And although today,
we are here to grieve,
I also stand with our institute
leadership, students, staff,
postdocs, and faculty
prepared for deeper
and sustained strategic action
to accelerate our community
toward a more inclusive,
equitable, and just future.

---

### AudreyRose Wooden (An MIT Community Vigil)
URL: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YpC6JA4m73Q

Idioma: en

AUDREYROSE WOODEN: Hello, all.
I wish I was before
you on better terms.
But this is for my community.
I will be sharing a poem with
you called "Our Protectors TM."
This one isn't about me.
And it's not about
my family issues.
It's not about my PTSD.
It's not about my pain.
Though they'd all be fitting
for an occasion such as this.
I started with that
to make it very clear
that I wrote my last angry
poem a long time ago.
And I wrote my last scared
poem even longer before that.
So if that's what
you came for, that's
why we writers sell books.
But this is-- this is for us.
Because they only seem to
talk business around here.
But this is my business.
So listen close.
I'm in the business
of black joy.
I'm in the business
of black love.
And most of all, I'm in
the business of black life.
And we won't stop until
we get what's ours.
So, no.
This is for the ones
that have always
been good at protecting us--
my brothers and my sisters,
which we naturally love to see.
Your laughter, oh so
thunderous, reminds me
of bellowing winds and dripping
rain drops and the smell
of freshness that comes only
with the calm after the storm.
Your voices having been warning
signs before lightning struck
and your smiles giving the
sun permission to shine again,
wrapping us up in
a warm embrace,
whispering that
everything is not OK.
But with them at
least we'd be safe.
Y'all are like a welcome mat
behind a door jammed shut,
ready and oh so willing.
But not everyone is
meant to use you.
Y'all are like the perfect
mix of the truth that we want
to hear and the truth
that we need to hear.
Always strapped with the
perfect GIF, over and over
and over again, we're reminded
of how your existence is
a perfect gift.
And y'all know us better
than we know ourselves.
See us how we see ourselves.
Correct our vision.
Correct each other, growing
together intentionally.
Y'all be sounding like you've
been around for a long time,
like you've lived
a lot of lives,
like you've seen some stuff and
still live each day like you
could lose it all--
knowing that we'd never
lose each other, though,
because there's something
prophetic about this linkage.
So no matter how hard we
try, no one is left alone.
And no matter how often
or how much we cry,
joy always comes in the morning.
And no matter how far we travel,
we still trust each other
with our lives.
Yes, trust.
Because our protectors, they're
not be as bandwagon fans.
They're not a rent-a-cop
or a bad apple, no.
They're more than just the
boys and girls next door, no.
They're more than we
could have ever asked for.
But this isn't about
just me and how I feel.
This is about how I
couldn't help myself
when I think of the love that I
feel daily from this community.
Because y'all aren't
"like" family.
You are.
Y'all aren't "like" the funniest
people I've ever met before.
You are.
Y'all aren't "like" my
favorite people in the world.
You are.
And just as much as you're
my protector, I am yours.
And the protection of folks
like us is serious business--
trademark-type serious.
And I'm happy to be in
business with you all.
Thank you.

---

### Chevalier Cleaves (An MIT Community Vigil)
URL: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8tGLnHZOC-4

Idioma: en

CHEVY CLEAVES: Good evening.
I'm Chevy Cleaves, the Chief
Diversity inclusion officer
for MIT Lincoln Laboratory.
James Baldwin said, it
is certain in any case
that ignorance allied with power
is the most ferocious enemy
justice can have.
Like many of you,
the last two weeks
have been two of my most
difficult in a long time.
And it's not over.
While George Floyd's
senseless death
is one of a half dozen tragedies
in the last two weeks alone
that have been captured
on the national stage,
we know that other tragic
events frequently occur away
from the national spotlight,
but are actually center
stage in most of our lives.
I appreciate the opportunity
to join with you today
to share some of my thoughts.
I spent over three decades
either preparing to serve
or actually serving my nation.
25 years on active duty.
Three years as a civilian in
the senior executive service.
And four years
before all of that
preparing as a student
at the Air Force Academy.
That serve as was and
is meant to purchase
for all citizens, not
just some of them,
the opportunity to realize,
embrace, and extend
our highest ideals.
However, it is with an
incredible, ever deepening,
and pervasive sense of
sadness that I am continually
forced to acknowledge that far
too many everyday Americans
and leaders do not
fully understand what
it means to be exceptional.
And history will,
in fact, judge what
has become normalized
behavior as anything but.
Even worse, the sacrifice that
it established and now sustains
us is cheapened by the
message that our constitution
and our institutions are for
some citizens and not all.
As a result, like many others,
I have feared for my family
those who look like us
and for the community
of those Americans who
understand the meaning
and possibility of
our aspirations.
Alexis de Tocqueville noted
that the greatness of America
lies not in being
more enlightened
than any other
nation, but rather,
in her ability to
repair her faults.
I truly hope so.
When I walked out of
the Pentagon on 9/11,
the world had forever changed.
Many of our divides
were already beginning
to be pushed aside, however
temporarily, in order to focus
on a common external threat.
Those divides soon returned,
opposing a common vision
for our future.
I do hope that the next
stage for all of us here
and around the country
is that this time,
we can commit to facing this
common internal threat in a way
that brings sustained change.
Thank you.

---

