Dedication to George Floyd, My Big Brother

Better a painful truth, than a comforting lie

First, I grew up with Perry. Sure, the world knows him as the martyred George Floyd, but to us — myself and his brothers — he’ll forever be Perry, my brother from another.

Second, because researchers estimate humans do roughly 80 percent of all thinking in pictures and every picture tells a story, it must also hold that every story paints a picture.

And so, as did Da Vinci paint a portrait of Lisa del Giocondo, I — being Leonardo’s namesake — shall try a hand at painting a word-portrait to commemorate my big brother titled — “Better a Painful Truth Than a Comforting Lie.”

For Gianna Floyd

I. The Good People

One sleepy evening while riding the subway, I overheard a drunkard slur the rap lyrics: “The world ain’t suffering due to the bad people’s violence; the world is suffering due to the good people’s silence.”

In vino veritas, indeed!

When SS command hauled off the innocent to Auschwitz concentration camps, the good people turned a deaf ear to the cries in the streets. The good people then turned aside in hopes of turning a blind eye to the lambs being sent to the slaughter.

Indeed, the world ain’t suffering due to the bad people’s violence; the world is suffering due to the good people’s silence.

From the tragic Holocaust to the “King of the Jews” being crucified for all the world to see, History repeats this sad, sad twice-told tale. …

So innocent was Jesus of Nazareth even the bloodthirsty Pontius Pilate saw cause to “wash his hands” before noting that “I am innocent of this man’s blood.” The bad people nevertheless “spat in his face” and “slapped him.”

The good people on hand turned a deaf ear to the weeping Nazarene. They then turned a blind eye to the Lamb of God being led to the slaughter.

Indeed, the world ain’t suffering due to the bad people’s violence; the world is suffering due to the good people’s silence.

As my warm-hearted friend Perry lay face-down on the cold street, the good people for 8 minutes and 46 seconds turned a deaf ear to his cries for help, pardon, for life. The bad people knee-strangled my big brother to death!

Perhaps the only difference between a “murderer” and a killer is the uniform.

Indeed, the world ain’t suffering due to the bad people’s violence; the world is suffering due to the good people’s silence.

II. P.S. I Love You

Dear Perry,

First, I miss you! All the brick boys miss you. In case you're wondering, Big Bro, I still haven’t seen that infamous footage of your final moments. Can’t do it.

The reason being, once two eyes see — the third eye can never unsee! And Lord knows I can’t handle that. … I can’t handle seeing the guy I looked up to in my youth—the gentle giant with LeBron’s physique — suffering in his last moments like that. Can’t do it.

I tried to watch Dave Chappelle’s touching dedication to you, but I couldn’t sit through it. After all, the instant he mentioned your last words were a cry for “Mama,” Miss Cissy, a lady at whose very kitchen table I used to munch on Cap’n Crunch with your younger brothers P.J. and Rodney, I abruptly turned off the TV! Can’t do it.

Big Bro, three days after you left the flesh, as fate would have it I inked a deal with a literary agent. Can you believe it, your lil bro is signed to the same agency that represents Eckhart Tolle?

You know what that means, right?

My first book, pardon, our first book, The Final Species Code, is dedicated to you. And don’tcha worry about your baby girl, Gianna, you hear? Whatever money this article makes goes straight to her piggy bank. If the LA Times picks up that piece my manager submitted, the check is to be made out to — Gianna Floyd.

You’ll forever live on through my work, Big Bro. Also, Cal Wayne will keep your memory alive. He’s still the best rapper in Houston! And oh, almost forgot, I heard Beyoncé may even dedicate a song to you. Don’t forget she’s Third-Ward-4-Life too. Aha! I knew that would bring a smile to your face.

Let me end this letter by trying to somehow unearth the silver lining from this jealous cloud, which has blocked Miss Cissy’s sun. Here’s what I came up with.

Though your premature passing robbed you of the chance to experience countless pleasures, it also saved you from having to experience countless pains. Life’s hard, Big Bro. … Life’s hard. Plus, I know you loved you some Kobe, so here’s a chance for you guys to play one-on-one all night in Heaven.

And oh, almost forgot, since I know you’re up there hanging with En-Joe and A-Roc, tell my fellow Pisces I say, “What it do?” And I already know Pokey up there pranking the angels. Be sure to let him know we miss his smile.

Alright, alright, I can already hear you up there grumbling, “Cut out all that mushy talk, bro!” You want some pay-back, huh? You want me to use God’s gift to pay America with a reality check, huh?

On every other day I share a dream with Martin Luther King, but today you wanna see me end this piece as would Malcolm X, huh?

“Don’t write that spiritual stuff today,” you’re griping. “Give me some social commentary. End my dedication by showing the world the Cuney Homes can produce a James Baldwin.”

You want that “God gave Noah the rainbow sign, no more water but fire next time,” huh?

Say no more, Big Bro. …

Say no more.

Your brother from another,

Genius

P.S. I Love You

III. In Closing

“What, to the American slave, is your Fourth of July?” Frederick Douglass wondered.

Apparently one of the great-great-great-grandchildren of slaves answered Douglass when he knelt during the anthem before a football game. After all, that Star-Spangled Banner, which waved “O’er the land of the free,” apparently had a black hole in the part of its cloth waved “O’er the land of the” slave.

Kaepernick’s kneeling for racial injustice and police brutality met its dramatic irony in the police officer’s brutal kneeling on the neck of an ancestor of a slave.

As for why the officer felt comfortable enough to casually drum fingers in his pocket during a public lynching, with a knee-noose tied around a black neck, not to mention the icy stare he arrogantly shot at the onlookers and cameras on hand . . . perhaps explains why the slave-owner Francis Scott Key felt comfortable enough to pen “home of the free.”

Each picture tells a story. The word-picture on hand is painted by a black boy born to a 14-year-old girl and an illiterate father, whose father’s father was illiterate, and whose father’s father was illiterate due to having been born a slave forbidden to dare read or write. Here lies the problem.

The DNA of why racism and discrimination still reign supreme boils down to the following painful truth:

The good people only lend a voice where they see there will be a “safe” return.

So long as Perry’s murder was captured on camera and public outrage ensued, it was safe, even trendy, for all the world to chime in. Ah, but when the issue concerned bravely stepping out into the streets of Auschwitz or compassionately coming to the aid of my big brother as the bad people knee-choked him to death, the good people’s silence spoke louder than the bad people’s violence.

Perhaps no one ever told the good people it’s always best to speak the truth, even when your voice shakes; and always best to carry the torch of justice — even when your hand trembles.

Pain overflows my heart and leaks through my pen. … An image of Perry flashes before my third eye accompanied by Antony’s whispering in my third ear his funeral oration for Caesar:

“Oh, Judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts, and men have lost their reason. Bear with me: My heart is in the coffin there with [Perry] and I must pause till it come back to me.” — Shakespeare

In short, the painful truth says — so long as the good people elect to play it safe and turn deaf ears to the cries of injustice, the bad people will continue to rule the world’s stage.

Jim still Crows with delight upon seeing Lady Justice lift her blindfold and plug her ears. Ah, but hey — better a painful truth than a comforting lie!

RIP Perry