Summary

The author, Ed, recounts a profound emotional experience upon encountering a man resembling George Floyd in a coffee shop, which triggers a vivid reliving of the trauma surrounding Floyd's death.

Abstract

Ed, a writer and civic strategist, was working in a coffee shop when a man bearing a striking resemblance to George Floyd entered. This encounter transported Ed back to the moment he inadvertently witnessed the video of Floyd's murder, an event he had initially avoided. The experience was so visceral that Ed felt as though he was lying beside Floyd during his final moments, an emotional connection that left him deeply shaken. Despite the passage of time and his outward appearance of strength, the encounter served as a reminder of the enduring impact of Floyd's death and the shared pain of the Black community.

Opinions

The author has a deep emotional connection to the George Floyd incident, which is felt intensely through the narrative.
Ed believes in the solidarity and shared experience of the Black community, emphasizing the brotherhood he felt with George Floyd.
The author seems to suggest that the pain and trauma of such events persist, despite efforts to move forward and appear strong for others.
There is an implied critique of the media's repetitive broadcasting of the murder video, which can retraumatize viewers.
Ed conveys a sense of responsibility to bear witness to the suffering of others, as seen in his decision to metaphorically join George Floyd under the car.
The author values the power of music as a means to enhance the emotional resonance of a moment, as indicated by the recommendation to listen to Moses Sumney while reading the piece.

The Apparition of George Floyd

I Saw George Floyd Walk Into A Coffee Shop Yesterday

Image credit: Daniel Roth, City of Birmingham

RECOMMENDED: Open your music player, find an artist named Moses Sumney, and play “Self Help Tape” while you read this.

I was tucked away in the corner of a quiet coffee shop at 6:00 am on a Sunday morning. Writing for my blog. Invisible and present, all at once.

I was listening to Moses Sumney’s dreamy “Self Help Tape.”

I looked up from time to time to glance at passers-by. Early morning runners grabbing carbs and coffee. A dutiful young father juggling an infant and three colorful cups of caffeinated delight like a family jester. An elderly couple reading bibles in silence, grimacing at me as if I stepped on their altar with my dirty feet.

These characters swirled around me as I entered the “writer’s flow” — a state of focus where distractions disappear leaving only the writer in their sacred temple of flow.

I pressed words, sounds, and emotions together like ground Ethiopian coffee beans through a French press. Words dripped from my fingertips.

Then, he walked in.

Slept on Artist: Moses Sumney

This soulful, androgynous artist surpasses our imagination

honestlyed.medium.com

My brain was instantly jostled as if I drove over a speed bump at full speed. I did not see him coming.

He was the spitting image of George Floyd. His complexion, his nose, his lips, his sober expression. He casually walked to the counter to order his coffee.

I’ve never been this close to an apparition. My heart started beating as if I just bumped into a celebrity I had been a fan of since my youth. But, he was not Nia Long. He was George Floyd.

I stayed away from the graphic video of George Floyd’s murder for two weeks. But, I heard how bad it was. I helped lead Birmingham’s civic response to his murder. I supported Birmingham’s takedown of the Confederate monument. All of this happened and I never even saw the video. I didn’t need to see it to feel the rage or the pain.

I’m a conscious black man in America. I already know.

One day, I must have been daydreaming or otherwise distracted when I walked around the corner to my office because I glanced at the television in the lobby. I usually averted my eyes from that television, but I happened to look up at the exact moment the media decided to replay the entire 8:46 video and I caught it midway through.

My eyes locked with his and I stopped in my tracks.

I couldn’t look away.

Once I locked eyes with him I was with him. No television, no narrator, no crowd. Just me and him there. I would never leave another Black man in that condition. So, I joined him.

I slid under the car behind the rear tire so that we were face to face.

Only he could see me laying there, chest down, face turned toward him, like a spouse on his usual side of the bed.

I saw his hands, pinned behind his back, and I reached out to hold them.

Our eyes stayed locked. He looked scared. He didn’t know me, but in that intimate space, we were brothers connected by fate.

We breathed in car exhaust and saturated motor oil fumes rising through heated, cracked concrete.

The horror of the moment was burnished into the pores of our face-planted cheeks, now branded like fleur-de-lis.

We exchanged primal utterances —

I told him I loved him. He cried out for his mother.

I cried for him.

Then, he died.

I left the office that day and cried for hours. My wife held my shivering body close to hers. I told her I was not okay.

I cried quietly for two more weeks, even as I projected strength for my family, team, and community.

Eventually, I recovered and went on with my life. Just like you.

The apparition got his coffee and walked past me to exit the shop. I tried not to stare at him, but he did not notice me anyway. As if I was the ghost.

I watched him get into his car, carefully back out of his parking space, and pull off. I hope he got home okay.

I didn’t.

Honestly,

Ed.

I am a poet, essayist, and civic strategist based in Birmingham, Alabama. Get to know me better here.