 Hello, and welcome to
the special broadcast,
a documentary by
DanSan Creatives.
I'm Carl Crawford.
And I was invited by WDSE,
WRPT to moderate tonight's
discussion.
Joining me in studio are
tonight's guests, Daniel
and Sandra Oyinloye, whose
documentary, "I Can't Breathe--
A Clayton Jackson McGhie
Memorial," premiered Monday,
June 15, on Facebook.
Daniel and Sandra
approached WDSE
about airing the documentary.
And the station agreed that
it is an important voice
for my community
and will hopefully
lead to an important
conversation
within this community.
The documentary will be
shown in two segments.
We will watch the
first segment, then
talk with Daniel and
Sandra about the production
and how it came to be.
We will then watch
the second segment
and talk about where
we go from here.
A quick note, the
documentary contains
graphic content and viewer
discretion is advised.
This is "I Can't Breathe--
A Clayton Jackson
McGhie Memorial."
NARRATOR: On the evening
of June 15, 1920--
[dramatic whooshing]
--in Duluth, Minnesota--
[MUSIC - BLACK HEART FEATURING
 BLU LOCO, "PULL UP"]
--three black men,
wrongfully accused
of raping a white woman, were
abducted from the Duluth,
Minnesota, city jail.
[vocalizing]
The accusers, Irene Tusken
and Jimmie Sullivan,
had attended a circus
the night before,
to which they claimed
that six black men
and robbed them at gunpoint
and raped Irene Tusken.
Although a physician report
found no evidence of rape,
the couple stuck to their story.
And rumors spread
quickly like wildfires,
resulting in a mob
numbering between 5,000
and 10,000 people who broke
into the jail on Superior Street
and dragged three young men,
Elias Clayton, Elmer Jackson,
and Issac McGhie, to the corner
of First Street and Second
Avenue East.
They savagely beat and
tortured these three young men,
then hung from a lamppost in
the middle of Duluth's downtown.
The grim spectacle of the mob
posing with the lynched men
was then captured
by a photographer
and then circulated
as a postcard.
It was widely agreed to be the
most heinous lynching of 1920.
[MUSIC - JAYGEE, "CAN'T BLAME
 IT"]
How you enslave
in Christ's name?
How you take kids
from they family?
How you got a legal gain?
How you got us thinking that
we free and legalize privatized
prisons in Amendment 13?
PROTESTER: [inaudible]
[cheering]
No, no.
Can't blame it on that no more.
PROTESTER: Hear what I'm saying.
We need to [inaudible] [bleep]
on the news or in a video
or on Facebook.
If you want to be a
part of the solution,
put yourself on [bleep]
[cheering]
(SINGING) Yeah.
March, step.
March, in step.
People get chills--
PROTESTER: [inaudible]
[shouting and cheering]
[applause]
(SINGING) Martin Luther
King, Malcolm X. March, step.
 Black lives matter!
CROWD: (CHANTING)
Black lives matter!
Black lives matter!
Black lives matter!
Black lives matter!
Black lives matter!
Black lives matter!
Black lives matter!
I can't breathe!
I can't breathe!
I can't breathe!
I can't breathe!
I can't breathe!
I can't breathe!
I can't breathe!
[soft music playing]
I can't breathe!
I can't breathe!
I can't breathe!
[chanting fades]
[static]
LESTER HOLT: Good evening.
Once again, cell phone
video on the internet
have made us all bystanders to
the gritty and sometimes ugly
side of police work.
[static]
 --to the violent incident
at a Louisiana middle school.
First one officer, then
two, appearing to body
slam a 14-year-old.
REPORTER: Cell phone video shows
some of what happened next--
a Newton County
Sheriff's deputy who's
assigned to the school
as a resource officer
ended up slamming the
ninth grader to the floor.
[shouting]
 [screams]
BYSTANDER: Why
would you do that?
BYSTANDER: Why is he
doing those those things?
 [screams]
[shouting intensifying]
BYSTANDER: (SCREAMING)
What are you doing?
[bleep] What are you doing?
REPORTER: The school
police officer body
slamming a female
high school student
has triggered outrage in the
North Carolina community.
[static]
WOMAN: Now you
man-handling my daughter.
REPORTER: The officer
takes her daughter down.
And she lunges towards them.
[angry shouting]
 (SCREAMING) I will
call my mom and dad.
 [inaudible]
 Oh my--
 Sit down!
Sit down.
On your face!
 [whimpers]
REPORTER: Melissa McKinnies
and family and supporters
were outside the St. Louis
County Justice Center
to talk about the death of her
son, 24-year-old Danye Dion
Jones.
The mother, a fiery
Ferguson protester,
has said she believes
Danye was lynched.
His body was found by
family early on October 17,
hanging from a
tree by a bedsheet
in the backyard of his
mom's North County home
in the 11400 block of Criterion.
[static]
REPORTER: Lennon headed out for
a walk the night of August 28.
They never saw him alive again.
The next morning--
REPORTER: Lennon's body
was found dangling,
covered in fire ants in the
center of a mobile home park.
 Authorities have released
body cam video of Derek Scott's
arrest from May of last year.
REPORTER: That response of "I
don't care" raising questions.
 Now to a deadly shooting
that's inflamed racial tensions
in a Georgia community.
Tonight, video has surfaced of
an African-American man being
chased down and killed.
His family says he
was just out jogging.
REPORTER: While he was jogging
through this Brunswick, Georgia
neighborhood in February,
Arbery was confronted
by Gregory McMichael
and his son, Travis,
who shot Arbery
twice with a shotgun
before the 25-year-old
collapsed and died.
[gunshots]
 Go ahead and take your
seatbelt off for me.
 I didn't even do nothing.
 Go ahead and take
your seatbelt off.
Stop!
Stop!
 Stop resisting!
 Stay back!
Stay back!
 You see how he's
grabbing my neck?
 Get the cuffs on.
 I'm not even doing nothing.
Come on, now.
 Like, what is you doing?
[inaudible] talkin' bout?
[inaudible] [bleep]
talkin' about?
WOMAN: Stop it!
 What you choking me for?
 Get on the ground!
[sirens blaring]
 I gave you an
order to [inaudible]..
 Stand back!
Put your hands behind your back.
WOMAN: They're arresting Devin
and Joe for no reason at all.
These cops are
literally arresting us
for no [bleep] reason.
 The rallies
across this country,
they are shouting
another name as well--
Breonna Taylor, who would
have turned 27 today.
Back in March, she was
shot eight times while she
slept in her bed in Louisville.
The protesters across
this country demanding,
say her name.
Here's Deborah Roberts.
DEBORAH ROBERTS: Tonight,
demands for justice
as the FBI investigate
Brianna Taylor's
killing at the hands of police.
 Say her name!
PROTESTERS: Breonna Taylor!
 Say her name!
PROTESTERS: Breonna Taylor!
DEBORAH ROBERTS: Today
she would have turned 27.
WOMAN: Lynched on streets, in
cars, in jail, by the store,
in the store, with our kids,
without our kids, isolated,
in public, with a statement,
without a statement, on a walk,
on a jog, on balconies,
on our way to work
or from work, going to
school, coming from school,
in our church, in our homes, in
a park, as a child or an adult.
We can't breathe.
100 years later, June 15, 2020.
Black men and women are still
being lynched in streets
by an invisible mob
of people hiding
behind systems and policy.
 8 minutes of 46 seconds that
you were on the guy's neck,
and he was crying for
his momma, is telling you
that he can't breathe.
And two others sitting
on his chest, also
kneeling on his chest.
 He was already saying
he couldn't breathe,
so that should have
been a sign right there.
Just pick him up,
put him in the car.
People kept saying-- telling
him to get in the car.
He couldn't even get up.
 There's so much anger that
the emotions that goes through
you-- it--
 The look on the officer's face
with his hands in his pocket,
no emotion, that says so much.
And that video said
enough is enough.
 When he was already--
I'm just going to
say passed away--
he was already passed
away, and paramedics
came to check his pulse.
He still had his
knee on his neck,
and he wasn't even
resisting none of that.
He'd been stopped resisting.
He'd been wanting to get up.
So I feel like that was wrong.
CARLA HAMILTON: He was robbed.
His children and his
family was robbed.
And it just-- to die
in a violent way,
it's just a horrible way to go.
It's very sad.
And I'm angry.
 It's violence
against black people,
brown bodies in this country.
 Another black, man
another black body
was taken from our community
at the hands of police.
And each time it happens, just
realizing the lack of respect
and trying to understand
how people can look at us,
look at our bodies, and not
see the dignity that we have.
[music playing]
 And I get a lot of frustration
behind it, especially
with my peers, because some
of them find it as a joke.
And it's really
frustrating because it's
like, they don't
understand how real it
is because of white privilege.
It's not like they hear
it from their other--
from their family.
They don't share it, you know?
Because they never
have to worry about it.
So it's kind of
just frustrating.
 I know that some people that I
know have mixed feelings on it,
but I think that it was wrong.
 When I see things
like that happen,
it just makes me
also very suspicious
of what could
potentially happen here
and how's that going
to affect the people
that I care about who are
very close here in Duluth.
[music playing]
 There are so many
feelings going through me
at that particular
time, especially anger.
 I was angry.
It was unfair what
happened to him,
and I was just sad and mad.
 Anger, frustration.
 It's devastating.
 I feel like it's senseless
and more of the same.
 I was pretty
shocked when I saw it.
Like, I already know stuff
like this was going on,
but it was just like
pretty shocking to me.
 It's hard to put into words
because it's something I've--
me and a lot of other
people have just
felt our entire lives.
 It has happened, and
it continues to happen,
and it's going to
continue to happen
until we make some change.
And so for me, there was a
little bit of numbness too.
Like, OK, I don't exactly
know how to process this
or what to feel in this moment.
 Angry and betrayed by society.
I feel like society is
trying to abuse his death.
 We go back to now the NFL
saying, oh, yeah, we were--
we apologize for
Kaepernick and [inaudible]..
It's like, duh.
You know?
He tried it very peacefully,
and you gave him flak for that.
There is nothing that we've been
saying that-- oh, yeah, we're
going to listen now.
Well, now they're
having to listen.
This is not the way I would
have liked for things to happen.
But if this is what's going
to make you listen, oh well.
 I didn't see just another man
die or another black man die.
It was as if I was
watching my dad, uncle,
or myself in that situation.
 It feels like they keep
telling us that, you know,
we're free.
But we aren't.
 I think we just need
to take what's ours
and build up and remember him
and everyone who's being killed
right now to this day.
 The life of the
dream ain't supposed
to be limited by the
life of the dreamer.
And this is why I
can still take pride
in holding tight
to this here dream.
But it seems that we
have all forgotten
that our dreams must constantly
fight to overcome reality.
And our reality is
somewhere between the truth
and the bold-faced lie
that racism has gone away.
Because racism
ain't going nowhere.
It's simply now wears a
disguise because we've still
got black folks getting
victimized and brutalized
by black home mortgages and
hurricanes named Katrina,
and then in the end, getting
screwed over by the people
over at FEMA, comma,
assassinated by police
on live streams, comma.
And this is all what
they allow you to see.
So I think the beast
has been on his mission.
The problem is that we have
all been misleading ourselves
into Crayola-colored
denominations,
hyphenated stakes to a nation
in which our presence has
gone from necessity to novelty.
And now our existence
persists upon the borders
of citizen and resident alien.
We've been alienated
since our arrival,
but we can't afford
the return flight.
We can't give praises to Martin
and get on boats with Garvey
at the same time because
this right here is our fight.
And it don't take a team
of political analysts
to tell me that the
things that are going on
couldn't have been an accident.
It's been repeating
itself for so dang long,
it is far beyond redundant.
And this is why I believe.
You see, I believe that it
was seen in Martin's dreams
that we were always going to
have these hard times ahead.
But it looks like
since the Civil Rights
Act and affirmative action,
we done got too boogie instead
to make revolutions anymore.
We've got more problems
than we got solutions.
We can't feed the
huddled masses,
yet we've still got
billions for war.
But maybe we done got everything
we've been fighting for,
that Douglass, Randolph,
King and Shabazz lived
their lives for--
justice, equality, and peace.
But of all of these things
we have not seen the least.
Instead, we have gotten
empty legislatures
that get overridden by special
interest policies, fiscally
advantageous projects that
keep black folks locked up
in projects.
And I'm telling you, these
experiments ain't done yet.
That's why we are still
lacking our justice,
and we are searching for peace.
And there is no equality
when 13% of our population
is 44% of the
prison and over 50%
of those contracting
immunodeficiencies.
The disparities in American
life is what punctuates this.
The No Child Left Behind Act
is what perpetuates this.
So if wars are
necessary in order
for us to maintain
this kind of peace,
then we're going to stay
out in these streets,
are we're going
fight the [bleep]..
And this is why I get
on poetic pulpits.
And I'm going to continue
to spit this in the hopes
that we can one day
fight true peace.
And once we do, we must bind
it, inscribe our names upon it,
and make it our own, because a
peace that is taken for granted
can soon be gone.
We have got to move on.
We have got to get strong.
Because we are the
children of ancestors
that sweat blood with broken
backs that built this nation.
And they were always
looking forward
toward a future
that we [inaudible]
the hope that our present
should have brought us.
But we have
squandered our gifts.
We've been so busy leaning
and rocking those at home
raising our children.
It is at that point
the system wins,
and we all go get done
in if we don't learn to,
if we don't yearn to change
all our mental conditions.
We must learn, know, write.
We must kick, scream,
and fight to be free.
REPORTER: Meanwhile, Governor
Tim Walz issued a proclamation
for George Floyd, calling
on all Minnesotans
to observe a moment
of silence today
at the start of Floyd's funeral
for 8 minutes and 46 seconds.
That's the amount of time
the Minneapolis police
officer was filmed with his knee
to Floyd's neck before he died.
 One example of this
moment of silence
happened during a St.
Louis County Board meeting,
and it was the same
moment Commissioner Keith
Nelson left the room.
Tonight, his reason why, and
one commissioner's call on him
and the rest of the
board to do better.
 That threaten the dignity of
our state's black communities,
indigenous communities,
and communities of color.
REPORTER: That's St. Louis
County Administrator Kevin
Gray reading Governor Walz's
proclamation for George Floyd
Tuesday before a
moment of silence
requested by Walz at 11:00 AM
for 8 minutes and 46 seconds.
 In just the 8 minutes-plus
that we were there,
I looked around the
room a little bit,
and everyone was thinking it.
What would it have been
like to be in that position?
It's 2020.
There is no place in St.
Louis county for racism.
REPORTER: The governor's request
came down during a recess
during the county board meeting.
 Board members, could
you please stay on?
We have a confirmation
from the governor.
REPORTER: But just as the
reading of the proclamation
began, longtime
Commissioner Keith Nelson
left, telling board chair Mike
Jugovich his stomach was upset.
 I understand with the timing,
it probably wasn't the best.
But he did not feel well, and
he does have some health issues.
REPORTER: Commissioner Nelson
would miss the entire moment
of silence and would return
after the recess at 11:15 AM
to continue with the rest
of the board meeting,
but without any
mention of his absence
during the moment of silence,
which board Vice Chair Beth
Olson says is unacceptable
during such unrest
in the country.
 If there was a
reason to be gone,
then there would be
even more of a reason
to say why you were gone, or
just to say that you were gone
and that it was important
you should have been there.
He had other chances
to speak to this issue
and to express his support
and express his respect
for Mr. Floyd's life.
He did not take
those opportunities.
REPORTER: Commissioner Nelson
tells Fox 21 he is diabetic,
meant no disrespect, and
would have participated
in the moment of silence if
he would have felt better
at the time.
 I think Commissioner
Olsen is being judgmental.
And that has been a
pattern that she's
had for the past
year, year and a half.
There's nothing to clarify.
I did nothing wrong, OK?
There is nothing to clarify.
I've been told this 100
times this afternoon.
This situation in Minneapolis--
what a travesty.
 And Commissioner Crone,
if the people in my district
had voted for slavery, and if
the vast majority had, and I
was representing them,
the answer is yes, I
would have voted for it,
because that's my job.
My job is to represent
the people in my district.
It is not to impose
upon them my will.
That is called a
totalitarian state.
Last I saw, we still
live in a democracy.
 Racism is like--
racism is American
pie in Duluth.
It's just every single step
of the way, every place
that you go to.
People just-- I don't know.
It's like their first nature.
And no one talks
about it, and no one
really cares to change it.
 It looks like benign neglect.
 Racism in Duluth is covert.
 I think it's a thin
veneer of this fakeness.
And when it comes
down to it, they'll
throw you under the bus.
But to your face,
they're nice and polite,
because that's what
you do in Minnesota.
It's a fake-y kind of niceness.
And it's a kind of ignorance,
but it's not acknowledged.
So yeah.
 Like my mom said, it's a
lot of passive-aggressivism.
It's not direct hatred.
It's more of an
underlying ignorance.
 People that are
causing the racism
are just too scared to admit
it, what they're doing.
So it's like they're trying
to keep it in silence.
 As long as we don't--
if we're not in the same
spaces, nobody cares.
 You can be--
you can be oppressed and
not even know about it.
It's that kind of secret
intolerance towards you
that's like--
it's almost invisible, I guess.
 The funny thing
is is I know there's
racist people down here.
I just like-- they just quiet.
They racist, but
they just quiet.
They just try to hide that
they're really racist.
 We feel it.
And sometimes, I think
that's even worse
than what people experience in
the South where it's covert.
When I've been in the South--
I mean, I grew up in Texas.
And when I've been other
places in the South
and I've experienced
overt racism,
well, there's something
kind of comforting to that,
because at least
I know it's there.
Here I have to fight
so hard for people
to understand that it's
happening and to believe it.
And then it's even harder to
try to do something about it.
And so to me, racism
here is so frustrating.
 I think racism looks like
a lot of different ways.
I mean, even the
concept of Duluth
itself is obviously built on
settlements and colonization.
And so that history
and that legacy
of colonization
and white supremacy
obviously manifests in how
Duluth is shaped today.
 Duluth is--
Duluth is a tough city to be in,
not just as a person of color,
but a non-native to Duluth.
Now, we've been here 20
years, and I can't really
say I'm from Duluth.
I will never be able to say
I'm from Duluth, whereas when
I was growing up
in Philadelphia,
after a certain time,
people would ask me,
where are you from?
I'd say, I'm from Philadelphia.
Even though if you want
the whole story-- yes,
I'm from Haiti, but now
I'm living in Philadelphia,
so I feel like [inaudible].
And Duluth never
really feels like you
can say you're from Duluth
because it always feels
like you are the outsider.
And that has been something
I just had to accept.
 As a mixed kid,
I grew up mainly
with my white side and
my white mother, who
villainized my black
side and would constantly
say horrible things.
 Racial slurs being
said to people or people
in the South flying
Confederate flags.
But to me, most of my life, I've
lived in a mostly white world
in Northern Minnesota.
And racism hurts
the most when it
comes from your white
friends or supposed friends
who don't say something
when those things happen,
who make jokes, who are
silent, who don't understand
the pain that I'm going through,
that the black community is
going through right now at this
time, but for our whole lives.
Every little cut that happens
to us, they don't understand it.
And they refuse
in their privilege
to take one second to attempt
to put themselves in our place.
 I was taught to stay away
from people with darker skin.
I was taught that
they were dangerous,
which really sucks, because
that was my dad and my friends.
It was-- it was learning
to cross the street
and now having to unlearn
all those things, having
to really dig deep
into what I was taught
and unlearn that [bleep]
and figure out who I am
and what that side
of me represents.
 You know, it has been a
city that values whiteness,
eurocentricity, white
supremacy, and racism,
which again has shaped
the current realities that
is Duluth.
And so I think racism looks
a lot of different ways.
I think it looks like
opportunity gaps.
It looks like a curriculum
that centers and values
whiteness and productivity and
capital over human connection
and learning and growth and
building up of a community.
I think racism looks like
minimal organizations
or businesses that are
guided and controlled
by the power of black
and indigenous folks
in this community.
Racism looks like
the denial of racism.
And the reality is that
people of color in this city,
it looks like higher
unemployment rates.
It looks like all sorts
of different things.
And I think most folks of
color in this city know
exactly what it looks like
and what it feels like,
and we've experienced it in
all sorts of different ways
depending on where
we live in the city
and who we interact with
and what our jobs are
and all that sort of stuff.
So it looks a lot of different
ways, but it's very present.
 Duluth is a tough city
for anyone who is not white.
 So when you put the word
"Duluth" and racism together,
it reminds me of the event that
happened in 1920 when three
African-American circus workers
were falsely accused of rape.
And they were brought to jail.
They were in custody.
But the Duluth residents
were able to break them out.
And that shows so much of
what Duluth was and still
is for people of color.
[music playing]
 It's unfortunately a symbol
of the black experience
in America.
 I think it's
extremely important.
It's something that they
really don't talk about,
they really don't teach us.
I barely knew about
it growing up,
which sucks, because
it happened right here.
We have a whole
memorial about it.
And they just-- they don't
talk about it in schools.
They like to pretend
that it didn't happen,
that it doesn't exist.
It's important, and
everyone should know.
And everyone should
know their names.
 It's very important,
because otherwise, it
would just be swept under the
rug like a lot of other things.
Just like any kind of injustice,
it makes people uncomfortable.
But you have to be
uncomfortable sometimes
to think objectively
and for real.
And I think everybody
needs to see that.
That's murder.
That's horrible.
And it happened, and
you can't ignore it.
 Because it was so horrible.
It happened in our own
city, like right over there.
And 10,000 people-- right?
10,000 people showed up
or 1,000, one of the two.
And it was just horrible.
I feel like people
should remember it.
 Because they were
innocent people
that didn't do anything wrong.
And they got accused
for something
they didn't do at all.
And it was, like,
wrong for the people
that did that, because they
just felt like they had a right
to just take their rights away.
 I think it's important to
constantly remind people--
black, white, and
everything in between--
of the atrocities that have
occurred here in Duluth
and here in the United States.
 Because if three men can get
dragged out onto the street
and die in the open with
hundreds of people looking,
the least you can
do is remember that.
That's the least you can do.
 You need to recognize that
the lynching that happened
was wrong and racist
and not to forget
the men that died for not
doing something wrong.
 I think it just
helps us to be humbled
and to know where we came from
and to know where we're going
and that the fight--
it's an everyday struggle.
And that is why we fight.
We look to the memorial
as honoring the people who
have died, but also
hopeful for the future
that we can walk away
from that legacy.
 It speaks a lot to Duluth
as a city and who we are today
and how black people
are still treated
to this day in this
city, in this town.
And we can't ever let that go
silent as it did for 70 years.
 It tells us that
we as a community, we
as a culture, the white
folks in the culture,
they need to do better.
Clayton, Jackson, McGhie, they
were lynched 100 years ago.
And this same thing just
happened a few days ago,
a few weeks ago to George
Floyd, Breonna Taylor,
and many more that have
been happening since 2000.
And that's just not
supposed to happen.
100 years ago-- you
should have learned, like,
30 years after that
that it's not--
this is not what we do.
This is not how humans live.
And they should have changed
it right away because it's
really sad that
it's happening now,
and it's a very great injustice
to the black folks who
built this country and how
they continue living in it.
 Because that's what
we're fighting for now.
And we'll be fighting forever if
we don't do anything about it.
I think this generation
is the only hope
for the next generation.
 Well, because I think it
symbolizes how everybody says
there's going to
be change, or it's
going to be different this time.
And it never really is.
You know?
Every time a person
of color is killed
because of their color
from the police officers,
they always say, we're
working to fix the system.
But then you come back, and the
same thing happens every year.
 It's one thing
to see the memorial
and then think about how
far we've come as a society.
And something in that podcast
said Afrofuturism is right now.
Because 50, 100 years ago, they
could not have imagined the way
things are right now
and how they've--
things have improved.
But yet there's that--
also that contradiction that--
or I don't know if
necessarily that's
the right word, but this--
the other side of that is that
black and brown people are
still getting killed.
They may not be strung
up at the lamp post,
but they're being smashed
on the streets and killed.
So it's still happening.
And so it's really
confusing that we
have something
there to remind us
that we're better, that
we've come so far, but then--
that's a message, I
think, for some people.
But then I think for people
like me and my black friends,
it's something
completely different,
because it's a reminder
that that can still
happen right now.
It's a reminder that we're
not safe walking and living
being brown and black.
And so it's not just one
thing that I think about.
It's many things
that I think about
and I feel about when I
see the CJMM memorial.
[music playing]
 Well, it's kind of
sad because it's like,
this has happened before.
The same thing happened years
ago, and it's still happening.
And I just don't get that.
 Yeah.
You know, I've always had mixed
feelings about the memorial.
I think it's important
to acknowledge and honor
those three men.
I think it's important
to name that history.
I think it's
important to remember
these things for
eternity, to continue
to pass that knowledge
to people and pass
that information to people.
But if you go into the
memorial and you actually
walk through the
memorial, there really
isn't any sort of
conversation about racism
or white supremacy, which
is sort of the roots of what
caused that in the first place.
And so you could
essentially walk
through the memorial as a
racist and chalk it up to,
well, a group of people
made bad decisions.
And really, it's so
much more than that.
It's so much deeper than that.
And so the memorial never really
hits what it needs to hit,
which is these core
elements of racism
and white supremacy and
control and violence.
And so that is a failing on
our part as a community to,
and as a whole community,
to really acknowledge
what's going on.
And I think there needs to
be a more beyond a memorial--
history centers,
cultural centers,
interpretive centers
in this space that
are run, owned, guided, staffed,
and worked by black people
in this city who can talk more
about what that memorial means
and what the implications
of these lynchings
mean then and now.
And so I have mixed feelings.
I think it really can be a
tool can be used as a community
to educate.
But I also think it can be a
thing that white folks, city
officials or white
folks in the community
use as the collective apology
even though it hasn't really
changed the experiences of
black people in this city.
And so it's great that
that memorial exists,
but the ultimate memorial
to victims of lynchings
are cultural change,
systemic change,
change that can't allow those
realities to exist any longer.
MAN: (SINGING) This
little light of mine,
this little light of mine,
I'm gonna let it shine.
I'm gonna let it shine,
let it shine, let it shine.
Heaven only know, heaven only
knows the places I would go,
the distance I will go,
let it shine, let it shine.
This little light of mine,
this little light of mine,
I'm gonna let it
shine, I'm gonna
let it shine, let it
shine, let it shine.
Heaven only knows, heaven only
knows the places I will go,
the places I would go to
let it shine, let it shine.
You've gotta be heard sometimes.
You should speak up sometimes,
use your voice sometime.
Let it count.
You gotta be heard sometime.
You should stick up sometime.
Use your voice sometime.
Let it count.
I just can't let
nothing take over me.
I just can't let
nothing control me.
I just can't let nothing
take my feelings away.
I just can't let
nothing take over me.
I just can't let
nothing control me.
I just can't let nothing
take my feelings away.
You gotta be heard sometime.
You should speak up sometime,
use your voice sometime.
Let it count.
You gotta be heard sometime.
You should speak up sometime.
Use your voice sometime.
Let it count.
 The clock strikes a
quarter to midnight.
Our minds high from a night
of poetry in the big city,
we prance down the
way of the free,
unaware that our golden
carriage is a ratty pumpkin
in the eyes of Duluth.
68 in a 55 on my tail at 65,
and in a bout of fatigue,
I slipped to 68.
I'm the only one who
can drive this car,
and I already drove
six hours today.
My kids had a poetry
slam a few hours south
because there are not as
many opportunities here.
And you snicker as if spilling
one's guts out on a stage
is funny to you.
Telling one's story is just
a jolly old, good time,
as if being heard doesn't
matter in your society.
I'm glad that you grew up in
a world where people listened.
I'm glad you felt heard and
appreciated and respected.
Some people don't
get that luxury.
In a car stopped
full of minorities,
you snigger at us,
[bleep] the scene.
Your pressing gloves
make a move, one guard,
the other on your gun.
Your navy cloud starts
pouring, rocking the boat.
I'm seasick, fighting the
uprising of my dinner,
still trying to
digest the night.
This is red, white, and [bleep].
But [inaudible] your
punching bag for the evening.
Jab, your condescending
chuckle, jab,
the grate in your voice as you
dab salt in our systemic wound,
uppercut, blaming the black
man for white man's immorality.
You pin us down.
More than 10 seconds pass.
Your hands hold our breath.
You release your
grip out of boredom.
68 in a 55, on my tail
at 65, and leave us
with a ticket of your
baggage to live back
home in a ratty, old pumpkin.
[music playing]
[cheers and applause]
 I've committed to
not sitting still.
 I've committed
my life to trying
to be a voice when necessary.
 I'm committing myself
into telling stories
and [inaudible].
 Or a body when necessary.
 I guess committing my life
to equality, to social justice.
 A generator of
ideas when necessary
to address the issue of
racism and white supremacy.
 I've committed my life to
knowing what's right and wrong.
 Educate.
Educate, educate, educate.
 I just want to keep
trying to be for my people.
 I really have a
passion for human dignity
and revealing that.
 And one of the things that's
at the core of my beliefs
is abolition--
abolition of police,
abolition of prison,
and creating an environment
where we as people are free,
and that there actually is
no systematized, systemic
violence.
 African child
to African parents
who really don't
understand the struggle
that the black
folks went through
to bring this country up.
Because we came
here voluntarily,
so they don't understand the
struggle of the black folks who
were here before.
And my work is just
to educate them.
And it's really
hard, but it's always
giving them the reminder
that you can do better.
And black folks are our
allies because we're black,
and that's what we identify
as first in America.
 And as a black woman
in the United States,
racial justice is something
that I have to fight for.
 I think morality and
ethics are very important.
And I just really--
it sounds corny--
I just want to really
do the right thing.
And that's what I
committed my life to doing.
 My focus is the
next generation.
I think it's too late
for the people my age.
It's too late.
But the next generation, I
can do something about that.
 I want to be an actor.
 When I was younger, I
wanted to be a teacher.
But now I just want to be, like,
the owner of a homeless shelter
or something, because there's
a couple of homeless people
out here.
 Well, I'm only 14, so I
haven't really done a lot.
But I have tried to protest.
But sometimes, it
can get to riot-y.
You know what I mean?
And I totally understand that.
You know what I mean?
If the police are using
force, use force too.
I understand that.
But as a 14-year-old girl,
it's just kind of hard.
 When I was younger, I
would just say anything.
Like, when they asked
me what I want to do,
I just kept saying random stuff.
But since I'm like--
now I just want to do
hair and make money.
That's it.
 I want to do
something with law.
I don't know.
I feel I can make a difference.
And I want to be out there.
I don't want to hide myself.
 As I always--
when I was little,
I always said I
wanted to be a doctor.
As I was growing up, I said
I wanted to be a nurse.
And still now, I still
want to be a nurse,
but I also want to
be an entrepreneur.
 I'm only 19.
But so far, what I've
been trying to do
is I've been living up to
my mother's expectations
and my grandmother's
expectations
and my great-great-grandmother's
expectations.
Because they had
to sacrifice a lot
to get me to where I am today.
And everything they've
sacrificed and done
has let up to me.
And I'm just trying
to live up to that.
[music playing]
 Ready?
 My name is Rudy Perrault.
 Carla Hamilton.
 My name is Abdul.
 Jordon Moses.
And it's Jordon with
an O, J-O-R-D-O-N.
 Pearl Swanson.
 My name is Chris Davila.
 Glenn Simmons jr.
 Hi.
I'm Chloe Piper.
 I'm Q.
 My name is Emmanuel.
 I'm Ruby.
 My name is Triza Kwamboka.
 I'm Ruth Cabrera.
 My name is Camrom Magie.
 Latiesha Houston.
 My name is Lataysha Houston.
 I'm Abbey Delisle.
 I'm 14.
 I'm 14.
 I'm 19.
 Age 59.
 20 years old.
 I'm 14.
 I'm 21.
 I'm 14.
 I'm 14.
 36.
 23 years old.
 I'm 44 years old.
 I'm 29 years old.
 I'm 19 years old.
 I am 20 years old.
 University of
Minnesota Medical School.
 I go to the University
of Minnesota Duluth.
 I'm University of Minnesota.
 I go to UMB and I
work for the NAACP.
 I'm a member of NAACP.
 In various chairs in the
Black Student Association.
 And I play basketball.
 And I'm going to East
High School this year.
 I'm going to East High School.
 I am from St. Paul,
Minnesota, born in Ethiopia.
 Here in Duluth, we also have
the [inaudible] Foundation.
 I was the coordinator for the
Clayton Jacks McGhie Memorial
Incorporated 100-year
Commemoration.
I no longer serve
in that capacity.
 I worked at St.
Scholastica up until recently
in the Diversity and
Inclusion office.
 A motivated community member.
 If you're doing nothing,
we're actually moving backwards.
 Joining us now is Daniel
and Sandra Oyinloye.
Daniel and Sandra, thank you
for coming on tonight's show.
Why did you decide
to make this film?
 So in thinking
about this production,
it was extremely important.
That's the short answer.
The longer answer is there
were a lot of moving parts
going on at the same time.
And this was the
platform in which
we were allowed to respond
to everything going on.
We were contacted by Clayton
Jackson McGhie Memorial Board
to help with bringing
the event for this year
to fruition because
the COVID-19 hit,
and all of the 2020 plans of
Bryan Stevenson that Jordan
Moses is putting all
the hard work in doing
fell apart in terms
of just for this year.
And we were called to see if
there was anything we could
do to help make that happen.
And the way we work and
create is we are constantly
thinking storytelling, and
we're constantly thinking,
how can we tell stories
that relate especially
to the black community
in terms of voicing
our voice as a
people collectively?
And so a lot of
the work we've done
has revolved around
that in our time.
And so when this
question came up,
we were looking
at, what role do we
play to respond in terms of just
helping curate the narrative
around Clayton Jackson McGhie?
That was before George Floyd was
killed, murdered in cold blood.
And when that happened,
we called the board up
in the meeting and said,
it's extremely important
that we tell a story
that frames things
from the perspective of the
history of lynching and murder
and killing, white supremacy
here in the United States.
And so Clayton
Jackson McGhie's story
became sort of a
catalyst or a framework
to tell the stories of all
the other names and people
who are falling victim to white
supremacy and the injustice
around policing in
the United States.
So Clayton Jackson McGhie
agreed to fund the project
and make it happen.
We, again, as dance
and creatives,
operate as a community.
So we called all of our
friends and community members,
musicians and folks and
poets, and just community,
and asked questions
of how to go about it.
And we got good advice
from [inaudible],,
from Jeremy Gardner,
from Latasha [inaudible]
and all of our committee
of folks of how
to approach this subject.
And so we decide to do an
event to curate stories.
I think answering
that question for me
is thinking about how have our
stories been told in the past.
Our stories haven't
oftentimes been
told in a way that is
curated by us, which
is why I'm inspired by
people like Ava DuVernay
and folks who continue
to hold onto our stories
and curate our stories
in a very real way.
It's not sugarcoated.
It's not censored.
It's not told in a way to please
white bodies or white people.
It's told in a very
clear way of how we feel,
how we're experiencing it, and
what is important to be noted.
And so that's why we felt
it was important to respond
in kind through
storytelling, through a film.
And Duluth has currently
a lot of talented folks
who are creating
components for the film.
We didn't just make
the film alone.
It's impossible to make what we
made in the short time we did.
We made it because we had
a lot of creative talent,
black talent here
in town, who were
willing to put in
overnights and time
to create content
to really bring
this emotion to the screen.
 Sandra, if I
can, how important
is it that black people tell the
narrative of the story of what
happened on June 15?
 Wow.
I find it extremely important.
I think historically--
Daniel shed some light on it--
we haven't told our stories,
right?
A lot of what is out
there has been stories
from an outside perspective.
And that narrative
has often been
created in a way
that doesn't really
get the full essence
of who we are
or the essence of how we feel or
what we're really dealing with
and what we're going through.
I think that using
this documentary
to be able to collect community
voice was the best part of it.
You know?
Just to add on to how the
documentary came about--
so there is a segment
of the documentary
that is from an
intergenerational conversation.
And just having that,
having community members who
are from the Duluth community
sit down and talk about
the current issues--
and you see how--
you see that thread of how
all is connected, right?
And you see the
similarities in the stories
even though you're speaking
to a completely different
generation.
And those are the stories
that need to be told.
As we're progressing,
as we're figuring out
how to exist and be
ourselves in this community,
I find it also important that
we're telling these stories.
Because like I said, oftentimes
that threat is there.
And in terms of what
we're discussing
in the documentary, what
happened in your generation
should not be what's happening
in my nine-month-old child's
generation, right?
We should have progressed.
So just being able
to see that narrative
and see how those
things persist, I think,
is part of the reason why
that's very important.
 Yes.
I think what happened
in Minnesota-- we
went from the land
of 10,000 lakes
to the land of 10 million
tears to 100 years later.
And as you mentioned,
the world was stopped
by the death of George Floyd.
The timeliness of being
able to change and share
the narrative, what did that
mean for you both as creators,
as artists in this moment?
 Yeah.
Like Sandra
mentioned, I've always
wrestled with this phrase
of the frame of timeliness,
especially in the
context of America.
Because when things
happen, we always
think of how things are timely.
And it's always a struggle.
Because just from a lot of my
reading, a lot of my study,
a lot of my experience
here in the United States,
it just feels like something
that seems to be timely
is not the same experience
for us black folks.
Because for us, it's like,
that stuff happened last week.
You didn't know what happened
to this person's friend
or this person's mama,
this person's father?
And it's like, those
sort of experiences
feel like we're
always responding
to talk about how
things now are better
and how things are isolated,
like George Floyd's death could
be an isolated incident and
different from Breonna Taylor
or different from this.
And it's like, oh,
it's a chokehold.
If we ban the chokehold,
everything is fine.
Oh, no.
It's because it's guns.
OK.
So let's take the
guns, and maybe we'll
solve that entirely.
I think we're not talking
about the underlying issues.
And I think that--
and the response of this
documentary is having us
look at--
OK, there is there's
a lot of issues.
We do have a lot of positive
changes that need to be made.
We do need to pursue a
political system that
may work for us, right?
But the concept is,
let's look at us.
Let's look at white supremacy.
Let's look at Clayton
Jackson McGhie.
Let's look at 1920, 100 years
ago, like you mentioned.
Let's look at why 10,000 people
would drag three black bodies
from a jail and beat
them to half death
and then post postcards
as a way of sending
a message around
the United States,
the culture of lynching
around the United States.
Let's look at all
the 4,000 people
we kind of documented
that we hung.
Let's look at the 2,000 more
we just found a few months ago
of people that were hung.
And we cannot say
it's a timely thing.
We have to come to confront
the idea that what's going on
right now is an issue
that is embedded
into the education,
the hearts of people.
And to face that, I think
a film is a good start
to some point, because it is--
I think the essence
of stories for me
is we continue to
try and re-tell
a story to touch the heart.
But what's practical also
is that people who are white
need to begin to challenge other
white folks about what they
always thought was
timely, what they always
thought was isolated, and begin
to have a bigger conversation.
What has always been going on?
What haven't we
seen, and why haven't
we drawn the lines and
the parallels between all
of these stories?
Which is why we
designed a documentary
in that form of just
showing back to back to back
to back without
letting people breathe
for a little bit in the
beginning of the documentary--
to say, look, I could do
another three-hour special
on this, because we still
have a lot of footage
that I couldn't put into that.
But I had to create something
somewhat gripping enough
for that.
 So there's an idea for another
opportunity to have a sequel.
 To make this production--
I mean, to make anything,
film costs money.
And not just money,
but time and energy.
And not just having energy,
but a community of people.
That's what it practically
takes to make a production.
We're here on set right now.
We have people
behind the camera.
There's folks in the booth.
That's often what isn't
seen when people watch
movies is it takes millions,
sometimes, of people,
or thousands of people to curate
a story that is very impactful.
So we're always
willing to make movies.
That's not a problem.
The question is, if these
stories are important,
then resources has to open
up for folks, not just us.
There's a lot of
storytellers out there
who are willing to tell stories.
It's for folks to
begin to be empowered
to tell those stories.
 Sandra, if I can ask you,
what surprised you the most
about making this documentary?
 Nothing.
Gosh, I don't think
I was surprised
by anything, at least--
are you referring to the
content of the documentary?
 Yes.
The content, the outpouring
of community, the stories,
the many stories and the
common links as Daniel
spoke about,
connecting the dots.
 I don't think
that I was surprised
by the narratives or the way
the community came together.
I think that in the
line of work that I do--
I've worked with young
people in this community.
I've worked in the elementary
school, Lester Park.
I've worked at Denfeld,
Lincoln Park Middle School.
And when you're working
with our black youth,
these are the stories
that you hear.
And when I'm hanging out
with my black friends,
these are the
stories that I hear.
And when I'm hanging out with my
black elders in the community,
these are the stories
that you hear.
So it wasn't anything in
the documentary as far
as content-wise that was--
that was surprising to me.
Yeah.
 Good.
Well, it's magnificent work.
And we know that there is a cost
to people telling and sharing
their stories.
And I'm sure this is going
to create great content.
So where should those
conversations be held?
 Pardon?
 Where should those
conversations be held?
Should they be held
at home, at work?
 Everywhere.
I feel like these are not--
just like the stories,
they shouldn't
be isolated conversations.
The incidents aren't isolated.
And that's one of
the biggest things
we wanted to address with
this, is this is not isolated.
This is not a one-time thing.
So why should the
conversations be?
Why shouldn't we be at
work, in the market,
selling goods, and talking
about racial divides?
Why should we be talking
about why there's
a product for black women
and black girls locked up
and the behind the shelf?
So why can't we have the
conversation at Target?
Why can't we have the
conversations at the store?
Why can't we have
the conversations
at the oil companies
in Africa that
are taking resources
from the communities
and not giving back
to those communities?
Why can't we have
the conversations
in the police stations,
reforming the police stations?
So if someone is brought in
under a useless charge, why
isn't other officers talking
about it in the stations
and saying, that's bogus?
There's no reason why this
person should be here.
There's no reason why we
should detain this person here
for so long with no charges,
with nothing that makes sense.
So I think that the
story has to be had,
or the conversation has
to be had everywhere.
And the fact that we would
even think to limit it
or to think that
there's a space for it,
that's white supremacy to me.
Because creating specific spaces
to deal with specific issues
that address--
that is something
that everybody feels,
that everyone experiences,
that shapes society as a whole,
I think that's--
I won't a skillful way--
I would say it's a tricky
way to deal with things.
It's a tricky way of
gaining political points.
It's a tricky way of being
able to get more votes
and redirect conversation.
Because if you
compartmentalize the things
that matter to people,
you could run anything.
That's the issue
with storytelling.
That's why as
storytellers, knowing
that, we have to be able to
challenge that by saying,
this is a story for everyone.
So if we have a path
to create a space,
we'll make sure that
space could model
that behavior that we have.
We don't own all the spaces.
In fact, that's part of the
issue is when folks came
from Europe to this country
with the indigenous community,
they pushed folks
all the way west.
And that's the
history of America.
They took over spaces.
They changed the culture
of farming and hunting.
They called it the
civility contract
that they gave the
Cherokee people.
These are the facts of
how the country was built,
is they coordinated how
spaces should be used
and how people should put their
kids and families in spaces.
That was included in schools.
When they came to
Africa, the same thing.
They brought in
certain aspects of what
they called religion, which was
co-opted already by Roman rule,
if you ask me.
And they said,
these are the spaces
to have this kind
of conversations.
These are heavy
things to discuss.
We shouldn't be in 2020, and
nobody has mentioned this
and had conversations
like this in public.
Yes, there are repercussions for
talking about things like this.
And that's one thing the
community needs to know too,
is it's one thing for us to be
vulnerable enough to come here,
and it's one thing for us
to speak on these issues.
But we should be aware that
we have to, as a community,
protect each other
in all of this.
 Thank you both for
sharing those words.
We still have about 20 minutes
left in the documentary.
Daniel and Sandra,
if there is anything
you'd like to say or set up
what we'll be seeing next?
 The next part of
this documentary
is something that
is very personal.
A group of intergenerational
African-American folks
in Duluth came together
to have a conversation.
These are one of
the conversations I
personally, as a
filmmaker, usually
don't like to air because I
think as African-Americans,
we should be able to have spaces
to discuss our own issues.
But this was also a conversation
that everyone who participated
wanted to air.
They understood that it
was important for people
to know what's going on.
 Yes.
 So I think watching this
segment will be something that
is given perspective
to the broader audience
to see how we deal
with our issues
and how we deal with
not just our issues,
but challenge, folks in the
community, to begin to see us
and to see our need.
So as you watch it, I hope
you have that in mind.
 Excellent.
Here's the second segment
of "I Can't Breathe:
The Clayton Jackson
McGhie Memorial."
WOMAN: We are the people.
We are protectors.
We are the storytellers,
movement makers,
a wave of justice.
We are truth.
We are the victims.
We are the perpetrators.
We are tied together
because we are the carriers.
 OK my name is--
 Chaquana McEntyre.
 Sebastian Witherspoon.
 My name is Kameron Peak.
 I'm Dalayla.
 My name is Da'shiya.
 My name is Kwe.
 My name is Toni,
Toni Thorstad.
 My name is Kym Young.
 My name Dudley Edmundson.
 I am 67 years old.
 44.
 39.
 I'm 32.
 I'm 17.
 I'm 16.
 I'm 15 years old.
 I'm 58 years of age.
 I've been in Duluth, Minnesota
since I was six years old.
 I've been in Duluth for
roughly over six years.
 26 years now I've
been a Duluth resident.
I've come and gone,
but I've always
came back to get that sense
of family here for me.
 I was born in Gary, Indiana.
 And I've been here
for way too long.
 I moved here when I was seven.
 I've been going
back and forth,
but I've been here since I was
about roughly six years old.
 I've been in Duluth 50 years.
 I have been in
this community--
I mean both sides
of the bridge--
since 1988.
 I've lived in this community
for, I think, about 30 years.
 I think that's about 34 years.
I'm not sure.
32, somewhere around there.
 I am native to
Duluth, born and raised.
But I did leave 10
years ago to move down
to the Twin Cities area.
 I'm going to start
by introducing myself.
So I'm Daniel
Oluwaseyi Oyinloye.
I came here about 15 years ago.
So I come into this
conversation more
as a spectator who was curious
to learn how you've adapted
in this space, to pull
through all your perspectives
to learn what the space
has to offer individually
for you, but also as a
collective, as a people,
as black people.
KWE PERRY: I was told it was
started after the Clayton
Jackson McGhie Memorial--
I mean, after the hanging.
And so they had
decided they needed
to form the NAACP in Duluth.
It was an event in Duluth.
I don't remember
the exact event.
WOMAN: I just know that three
men were falsely accused
of raping a white woman.
KWE PERRY: They were
arrested that night.
WOMAN: And from jail,
people came and got them.
DUDLEY EDMUNDSON: They were
drug from the jail cells, then
the Duluth Police
Station, was somewhere
on [inaudible] Street.
WOMAN: Beat them half
deaf and lynched them.
DUDLEY EDMUNDSON:
And with an audience
of nearly 10,000 people.
WOMAN: As far as for
the lynchings for me,
when I did realize it took
place here, it did affect me.
DA'SHIYA JACKSON: I
know how it affects me
every time I see, like, people
in their 90s that live here.
I don't know.
I just look at them weird.
 I feel like it makes the city
kind of look like a bad place.
And also, it kind
of makes people
of non-colored look at us
people of color different.
DA'SHIYA JACKSON: Because,
like, y'all did that.
Y'all OK with it.
Nobody did nothing to change it.
Nobody brought light to it
but the three men downtown,
but that's just a reminder
of how gross Duluth is to me.
 For African-Americans
and people of color,
it's something that
we pay attention to.
But I don't feel like
the white community
as a whole really cares,
to be brutally honest.
It's something that
maybe they pay attention
to because they feel
they're supposed to,
but they really don't
have a frame of reference.
They may consider themselves
not racist, not anti, whatever.
And so for them, it's an
issue between black people
and racist white people.
And they don't see
themselves as either.
 The NAACP, that
name sounds familiar.
Hold on.
What is it?
 It's also a bit of a resource
where you can go and get
information, get help.
 I remember when there was
a really strong relationship
between the Twin
Cities and Duluth.
And they would come up and
help and be supportive.
There was also a time when we
traveled to different NAACPs
just to listen to what
their leaders were saying
and what they were
doing in the community.
And things changed,
like things normally do.
And I just fell
away from the NAACP.
But when I first came
here, that was a place
to go talk to individuals,
find out what you needed.
And they were also a very strong
advocate for going with you,
not only giving you the
information you needed.
SEBASTIAN WITHERSPOON:
Just being a black American
in Duluth, Minnesota in and
of itself, how challenging
that is, how much you have
to really fight to be seen,
to be heard--
the way that I would
describe my journey
has been one of an awakening.
Whiteness becomes pervasive
as a consciousness.
And then it becomes you.
And then as you get
older, you start
to see some differences
that are happening
and that are shaping the
way we show up in the world.
I know what the
trick is, because we
love to drink the Kool-Aid.
And that's what
happens in Duluth,
and that's why I left Duluth.
Because Duluth in and of
itself is very oppressive.
We talked about this
earlier in our group.
Unless you have a college
degree, there is no--
and even having a college degree
doesn't guarantee advancement
in Duluth, Minnesota.
And if I had my brother, Stefan,
here, he can attest to that.
He almost has a master's degree.
He has to fight for
every basic job he gets.
And he's one of the
smartest people I know.
 A very subtle change
from when this child
was in elementary school--
top of the class, popular.
And then she got into
junior high school
and realized she was black.
MAN: The school is fighting
against you to a point.
WOMAN: I actually switch
schools and kind of just
did independent learning.
So I went to Denfeld, and that
school is just not good at all.
 But more of they're trying
to teach you a lesson.
You don't need to be
harder for no reason.
 Up here, it's
just, I don't care.
Do you work.
Do your work.
Do your work.
And then it's like, they
stereotype everybody,
which is so annoying too.
Like, we still
stereotyped to this day.
 They think of us more like
bad people, not too much
of the quiet ones.
We're always loud or just
always doing something illegal.
And it's not really that way.
 Although our children
in elementary school,
they know they're
black, you don't
know you're black until
you hit the upper levels.
 26 years as a resident, OK?
I've been able to
see how they've
pushed one race all
to one side, off
to a certain side of the city.
And it's not until you
get into that space--
it's not until I
got into that space
that I've seen poverty and
the mental illness and the
addiction and experiencing
some of myself.
 I wasn't good enough.
I wasn't pretty enough.
I didn't have the right hair.
I didn't fit into the group.
For the black folks,
I was too white.
For the white folks,
I was too black.
And so I isolated myself, and
I became extremely depressed.
 I have four kids.
Out of my four kids,
three are biracial, right?
And so dating white women
is still a massive struggle.
 The biggest part of my journey
was finding myself beautiful.
 It's being heard by the
people that need to hear me.
 I have a fear of either I'm
not going to be understood,
or I'm not going to be heard.
 So what they did
to me out there,
I turned it on my own self.
 Every day is a journey.
It's a fight to continue
to push forward,
to continue to move on.
 There's been times where
I just felt like giving up
to the point where it's just--
and then I had to
remember, they're
trying to make you give up.
 I was told that I was
strong, but I always
reminded how weak I was, right,
by the very people I'm supposed
to be getting this love from.
But-- good thing I
didn't wear makeup--
but I've fought.
And I still fight.
I fight with myself.
I fight with my children.
I fight with society.
I fight with policies.
I fight with rules.
And I fight because
I see who I am.
KYM YOUNG: I see
a lot of conflict
among a lot of our elders
because someone so-and-so back
in the day this
or didn't do this,
and [inaudible] when
I was doing this.
It doesn't matter.
The point is we're here now.
And if our community
is crying out
to us for these conversations
and for this type of support,
we need to step up.
 When it's more of the
black-on-black conflict,
it's more like--
it's kind of like other people
from the outside look at us
like, what are
y'all arguing for?
And some of us even
look at each other like,
what are we arguing for?
We're supposed to
be like a whole.
 But we have a tendency
to move over and make space
for white people before
we'll make space for our own
in our community.
And we need to learn as elders
how to make space for us
and not move.
SEBASTIAN WITHERSPOON:
What's happened in terms
of generational
change and conflict
is the things that
have been said
about this idea of our
elders historically
wanting us to naturally just let
them be the ones that have done
it, honor that, not have
a voice in the process,
because that's how we're taught
how to respect historically.
What's changed is that
young people are not
like that anymore.
And so what I think that we
need to figure out how to do--
and I'm still working
on this myself--
is, how do we disagree well and
then move forward with that?
 Giving people the opportunity
to make the mistakes that we
made, and then still allowing
them to come back and love them
and show love to them without
all of the harsh "I told you
so's."
 Because we're used to catering
to our white counterparts
in order to just survive.
And our kids don't want
to survive anymore.
Our generations don't
want to survive.
They want to live and thrive.
 They're trying their
best, to be honest, for one.
But what they can do more of
is guide the younger people.
 Nobody wants to
truly communicate
on helping each other.
 To me, I'm in--
if it's a football game,
I'm in the third quarter.
And to me, I'm--
at 60, I feel like I'm
in the third quarter.
So--
WOMAN: [inaudible]
still have time.
Come on.
 Yeah.
[laughs] So I feel like
I'm at a stage where
all I need to be doing
is giving and not taking.
 Part of that's pride,
and part of that is people
don't want to be in
the third quarter.
You know what I mean?
It's hard to acknowledge that
you're in the third quarter.
And so it's things like that.
WOMAN: I've worked in the
white community all my life.
And I've been wanting
to do something
in the black community,
but I've been held back
by my own thoughts.
And some of those hurts
that I have go really deep.
 For people who have been
marginalized and oppressed
before they were
born and have never
been able to be innocent
before the womb--
again, we turn on
ourselves before we
turn on the oppressor.
TONI THORSTAD: And so I've been
doing this giant rummage sale
to get rid of all that
stuff I don't need
so I can have room for me,
so I can have room for you,
and for you.
 I love you.
 I love you.
 Now, this woman here--
real quick-- when I seen her--
I hadn't seen her--
I haven't seen this beautiful
woman, my elder, my leader,
in 20--
maybe 20, years?
Maybe 20, 25 years,
15, 25 years.
I haven't seen her.
I've been in the same
city she's been in.
I've been in the house like
she's been in the house.
You know?
And it's-- we're
cheating ourselves.
Because when I seen her, all
I thought about instantly
was how much she
impacted my life.
And it brought me to tears.
CHAQUANA MCENTYRE:
Why you want us
to do the feedback on
your employer about how
they helping us in our life
when we've been doing this?
Stop asking for solutions to
keep your family employed.
Because if you were truly
interested in solving
this problem, why are
there no black businesses
in this community?
 There's some
days where I don't
want to start because I just
feel like I'm tired of going.
And I've been here
for how many years?
And that makes you wonder,
and it makes you question.
Why haven't a lot of
minorities evolved here?
 So why are our children being
removed at such a high rate?
Why are children being
removed and being
placed into white
homes, and then they
lose their cultural identity?
How do I know?
Because I'm a social worker.
I'll say it again.
I am dealing with
African-American children who
are 3 and 16 who are
afraid of their own people
in this community.
How are you afraid?
It ain't that many of us.
Because what I see
is you getting grants
to have conversations with us.
But I don't see no
business doors opened up.
 You know, your doctor's white.
Your mayor is white.
Your schoolteachers are white.
Your police officers are white.
Your boss is white.
That's just the lives that
most people of color live.
So as a result, we get all of
these examples of white people
because they're at almost
every junction in our lives.
 Old, white Duluth who got
the money, and they intentions
is to keep the money because
generational wealth and legacy
is theirs to claim.
The difference
between them and us
is that we don't
have no buildings.
 That's what it's about--
the chum and the other places.
Because people want
to be able to--
they want to be able to
control who goes and comes.
But they'll act like
it's all good, right?
I want you here.
I'm going to even
support you in some ways.
And I'm not saying this to
say that white people are bad,
because that's not my intent.
But whiteness is a condition.
It's a consciousness.
It's not the color
of somebody's skin.
It's about who is in charge
and who is not in charge.
 And so I've always thought
about the biggest weigh-in you
have on life is your education.
But at the same
time, your education
could be the biggest thing
that knocks you down.
So it's like--
I stop worrying about if
it's the Board of Education
and more like my own knowledge.
So I start going
more towards that.
 I'm intentional
about texting my sons
and my nephews real
powerful stuff every day.
And that's because I
just don't remember ever
receiving that information.
 It's just tiring.
I remember going
to school, trying
to get all my teachers to care.
And they just didn't.
And all they needed--
it's like one key--
it's just relationship.
That's all that they needed.
 And it's small
steps from programming
to just doing
community advocacy,
making sure somebody call
me in the middle of night
on a Saturday night and
there's no food shelves open,
we get them food.
We give them a place to stay.
Because that's what we should
be doing for the community.
WOMAN: Where do I see my life?
At the end of the day, I'll be
the auntie on the block yelling
down the street.
That's who I'll be.
 I quilt. I used to
say-- well, I still do.
I quilt so people could live.
And I'm not dead yet.
And so I'm going to keep
on developing passions
and finding out how to
give to my own community.
 I say there are significant,
tremendous mental health
benefits, in addition
to the physical--
we know the physical-- but
the mental health benefits
of having a connection to nature
can help black people across
the country.
And I'm extremely
passionate about that.
 I write spoken word,
and I make music mostly,
like poems and stuff like that.
 I'm not really
the artist type,
but I like painting, even
if it's just little things,
or coloring, or just being
alone, no friends, just
being isolated to myself.
 How do you try to
articulate slavery,
Jim Crow, the civil rights
era, Donald Trump, whiteness,
systems of oppression,
the slave mentality
within our own community?
I am a proponent of healing.
I think my mom and my father
are the old generation
of black people in Duluth who
try to do things the right way.
 One of the things that is so
important, that ground rule,
is that you learn how to be
your own best friend, that you
learn how to love you.
And if there's not an
advocate out there for you,
you just look.
I don't care where
the teacher is.
I don't care if it's the
custodian or the janitor.
You look for someone who
can look you in the eye
and tell you that
you are special.
 It's that the brain is
conditioned one of two ways.
The brain can not be in
protection and growth
at the same time.
So if you're always
in survival mode,
you're in protection mode.
That's the same thing.
I am protecting myself.
And when you're in
protection mode,
you are not allowing
yourself to grow.
MAN: I felt like if I can
survive in the woods for a week
by myself, I can do anything
in the man-made world.
It don't matter what it is.
Come on, now.
WOMAN: Learn who you are.
And then for you to create a
picture of who you will become
and then go and be that person.
Never lose who God
created in you.
DA'SHIYA JACKSON: We should
focus on being there for people
because it makes them--
I know it made me feel way
better, and it taught me a lot
also.
It taught me to be
there for people
and be their support and
help advocate for them.
And yeah, it works
in the long run.
It really does.
KAMERON PEAK: You
know, a lot of times,
we have these great ideas, and
we have these great ambitions,
and we have these
fires in our eyes.
And people come and try
to snipe out that fire.
They will put it out.
And I've had so many
instances, like yourself,
where that fire
has been put out.
And I think the
resolution tonight is just
seeing the coming
together, camaraderie,
and the power that
is here is lively.
It's infectious.
And I want this to continue
to grow in my life.
WOMAN: Carrying stories,
traumas, pain, hope.
Faith was in our
arms, within our eyes,
with our stride,
within our breath.
We are those seeking
healing in order
to reconcile bridges
burned, lives taken,
birthed hate, trust broken.
How could we forget?
How can we forget?
Elias Clayton, Elmer Jackson,
Isaac McGhie, for you,
we are the storytellers,
movement makers,
a wave of justice.
We are truth.
 I can't breathe.
 I can't breathe.
 I can't breathe.
 I can't breathe.
 I can't breathe.
 I can't breathe.
 I can't breathe.
 I can't breathe.
 I can't breathe.
 I can't breathe.
 I can't breathe.
CROWD: I can't breathe!
I can't breathe!
I can't breathe!
I can't breathe!
I can't breathe!
I can't breathe!
I can't breathe!
I can't breathe!
I can't breathe!
I can't breathe!
I can't breathe!
I can't breathe!
I can't breathe!
I can't breathe!
I can't breathe!
I can't breathe!
I can't breathe!
I can't breathe!
[music playing]
WOMAN: It's something
no one should ever say.
 That is a powerful
documentary,
and I am honored to have
in the studio tonight
Daniel and Sandra Oyinloye.
At this point, who
did you make this for,
and what were you hoping
audiences would take from it?
 We made it for everyone.
But it's always important to
know that when I say everyone,
there is a lot of folks who
believe they're progressive,
who believe they are already--
they are not racist,
who believe that they
have done a lot of
internal work in racism.
And I wanted this to be
a reminder that that's
a continuing process.
So in terms of audiences,
it's for everyone.
But it's for everyone
who continues to fight
and gets exhausted
to remember that it's
an exhausting journey.
It's been happening for longer
than any of us have been here.
And we have to
confide in each other
and let black
narratives lead the way.
Because I think if
black narratives
and native narratives
and indigenous
narratives lead the
way, and other folks who
are even migrants in the
society, to some extent,
look at how the impacts of
their presence here are--
what impacts the
societies have on them--
if that narrative leads the
way, we could begin to--
we can find strength.
And we can find hope, real
hope, real confrontational hope.
So the audience is everyone.
But more consciously,
I like to always focus
on folks who are already
doing the work, who I consider
allies, who are also--
I think play a role in
bringing more folks along.
So that's the audience.
 There was a point in
the documentary where
you had an opportunity
for some of the youth
to talk about who they
hope to be as they grew up.
How was that, hearing
those stories?
 Yeah.
So with storytelling, you
kind of let the story tell.
 Yes.
 And so it happened in set.
So we're having all
these conversations.
And we wanted to know what
everyone was committed to.
To hear the young people
think of themselves
in terms of the commitment,
to hear a young girl
say I want to build a homeless
shelter, I wanted to do this,
but I'm going to change my
mind because I came to Duluth,
and I seen a lot
of homeless folks,
to hear someone say I want to
be a lawyer because I don't
want to hide in the shadows--
I think that-- to me,
it's very impactful.
And I love working with
youth because I feel if we
could empower young people--
if we could literally empower
them, encourage them, give them
not just a stage, but
support, protect them,
what the future could
be would be stories
like Bryan Stevenson's story
to look at his family history
and to be able to
make decisions to say,
I'm going to fight for this,
and aligning your heart
to your mind.
I think that's the power
of just that segment.
 Excellent.
Tell me more about the
title, "I Can't Breathe?"
What does this mean today?
 She wrote it.
 Did I?
 Yeah.
Sandra will tell you
the best about that.
 Yeah, "I Can't Breathe--"
it speaks volumes.
The reason why we ended up
naming the documentary "I Can't
Breathe," especially given the
current climate and everything,
the murder of George Floyd,
is because that is really,
I believe to be, the narrative
of being black in this country.
Right?
I feel like seldom, black people
get the opportunity to simply
breathe, whether it's
at work, whether it's
in the community we
live in, whether it
is at school, whether it's
when we're being harassed
or brutalized by police
or white supremacy,
there just hasn't
been that time.
And how I also see
it is also healing.
I'm a strong believer in
healing and that as a country,
as a community, we can't move
forward without reconciliation
and also healing.
Right?
And I feel like the black
community in this country
has never truly had an
opportunity to heal,
and going into the
concept of breathing,
because we're constantly
re traumatized.
We were speaking earlier
before we started,
and I was telling you
that I hadn't watched
the video because of that.
We're constantly re traumatized.
And we haven't given
a point in time
to be able to heal
because we're always on--
we're always doing something.
We're always having to deal
with something, whether it's
poverty, whether it is another
black man shot on the streets,
whether it's dealing with
things in your workplace,
in your environment.
There just hasn't
been an opportunity
for people to really just be.
And that, I think,
is the main reason
why we decided to name it that
and why that is so important--
because people are tired.
People are tired.
And people want to heal.
And that within itself
just tells it all.
We can't breathe.
 Absolutely.
Thank you for that.
And it really ties
in the narrative
of where we're at today.
In 1920, June 15, three men had
their lives strangled and taken
from them.
And here we are 100
years later where
another white officer murdered
a man by stepping on his neck.
And I've heard
many youth tell me
the only thing that's going
to survive COVID is racism.
But I tell you,
there's new hope.
Our young people are
taking to the streets.
They're standing up and
they're saying, no more.
Not here, not anywhere.
Tell me how you feel about the
new movement that's going on.
 I feel like it's
always been there too.
You know what I'm saying?
The young people have
had enough for so long.
But the new movement
in terms of that--
we're staying in the streets.
We're showing up every day.
It's out of what my wife,
I think, had talked about,
which is that tiredness.
The kids go to school.
In school, they can't breathe.
There is an officer
in school sometimes
that are getting
information from kids
will have probation on them.
They can't breathe.
There is no space for them
to recollect their thoughts,
to be given a chance to be
like, OK, make a few mistakes.
Let's figure out how we
can help you for real.
So this is an era where
young people are saying,
we do not want
just a little bit.
We do not want what our
fathers and our forefathers
had to be given because
that was the little they
could get to get out
of a tougher situation
that they were in.
We are at a place where young
people are asking-- saying,
we want freedom.
We want to be recognized
as full human beings.
And that, to me, is what's
really loud in the streets.
With everything going
on, asking young people
to show up to the protest--
not only show up--
lead the protests, show
up to the protests,
clean up after the protest,
help organize the new protest--
and that is not being told.
What is being told is young
people showing up, causing
riots, breaking property.
And we have a long
history in America
that values property
over black bodies.
Because for slavery
to occur in America,
we all know that the only
way that could happen
was to reduce black bodies
to less than properties
and create a transactional
system for them.
But years later, we
still have candidates
like Mr. Trump using
this idea that properties
are more important
than human bodies
as a rhetoric for
political gain.
So I think young people are
showing up now and saying, no.
We are full people.
We are not going to be
bamboozled by the ideologies.
We are going to take
care of each other.
We're going to fight
for each other.
We're going to stand
up for each other,
and we're going
to call this out.
That's someone's father who
just died, George Floyd.
That girl is going to
grow up without a father--
with a family and a community,
yes, but without a father.
That's why kids can't
do that anymore.
That's too much trauma.
 So the movement of today is
not birthed by just movement.
It's not hearsay.
It's not just a word.
It's not just a movement
of walking in the streets
to cause riots.
It's saying, we
literally are dying,
and we can't take it
anymore This is our life.
This is our story.
We need something else.
If not, you are
killing the last of us.
 Yes, we won't take it anymore.
 And I just want
to add to that, too,
the concept of having a
young person growing up
without a father--
you know, we're having
this conversation
because of the death of black
people in this country right.
And the thing about it--
when we think of
modern-day lynching,
it's not just the deaths.
We have to consider
mass incarceration too
and the amount of black bodies
that are sitting in prisons,
basically sitting in slavery.
They're sitting behind bars.
And the constant destruction
of black families,
of black youth that are growing
up without relatives that
could be by them because of
the system of white supremacy,
and going to jail
for petty crimes
and going to jail for no
crimes at all sometimes
but the color of your
skin, is interesting.
And then your question about
the young folks and the movement
just makes me think
of Black Lives Matter.
And I think that
if we hadn't named
this documentary
"I Can't Breathe,"
I would have also been OK
with "Black Lives Matter"
because it makes me
think of where we are
and how the movement has evolved
over time from black power,
this affirmation that
I'm black, I'm beautiful,
and I'm powerful, I'm
a powerful individual--
we're moving-- we've
seen the shifts
in the different
generations to now where
we're at Black Lives Matter.
To me, it says a
lot because we're
seeing-- we're at this point
where all I really want
you to know is that I matter.
All I really want you
to know is that there's
things going on with me, and
you need to pay attention.
And it just saddens me that
a lot of people take it--
they're like, oh, you
know, all lives matter.
And it's like, because black
lives matter does not mean
that all lives do not matter.
When we say save the
rainforest, we're
not saying all the other
rainforests should just burn,
and we don't really need them.
We're saying that
this is something
that needs our attention
right now because--
because we haven't
paid attention,
because we have potentially
neglected this space.
So that's just what
I think about when
I think of a movement as far
as Black Lives Matter and just
that call for--
like, yo, I'm here.
I exist.
And I deserve to
be here too, right?
I believe that's where all
the frustration in the younger
generation comes from.
Yes, we've moved
forward, and yes, we've
made changes in our systems.
But those changes
are not sufficient
because we've found
institutionalized ways to still
continue the previous systems.
And a lot of people are
calling for that to end.
Yeah.
 So 2020-- where do we go
from here as a black community?
 I mean, I have many ideas.
But I'm just--
I'm just one man.
As a storyteller, the
first thing I run to is we
have to think of ourselves as
a space that needs to heal.
And I think individually
as black people,
we need to confront
ourselves in that way.
I say that because as a black
man living in America, before I
turned 25, I was assaulted here
in Duluth by the Duluth PD.
I was pepper sprayed
and put in a jail cell.
And I remember sitting there
and thinking that-- what
was the statistics I wrote?
I read that before I turned
25, I'd be in the jail.
And I read it as a--
it's funny, because when I
read it I'm like, [scoffs]..
But when that happened to
me, it felt so surreal.
And to me, I feel
like as black people,
we need to reflect on
ourselves as spaces
that need to heal and take what
we need to heal in the best
possible way.
What I mean by that is
shortly after that incident,
I quit my job, because I needed
my mental health to be OK.
I needed to convince myself
that I don't need to perpetuate
this habit that I
have to keep hustling,
and I have to keep
hustling, I have
to work and survive and survive
and survive and survive.
So I had to take
some time for myself.
Yes, it was hard.
I had to survive on $20 a month.
It was difficult.
Which nobody should
have to, which is something
that systematically, we
have to talk about when we talk
about the bigger healing, what
it really takes for people
to take a break and to find--
to begin to confront things.
Those are certain things.
So as black bodies in
America, that's one way,
is begin to focus on ourselves
as taking back our power.
We can't over-exhaust ourselves.
We have to pace ourselves.
And for the black community
as a whole in the world,
I also think I have
a message for that.
Because in Africa, I grew up as
a Nigerian kid, a Nigerian kid
who never had the opportunity
to confront what colonialism
meant to him in
Nigeria because we
were colonized by the British.
I feel like most
Africans haven't
had the time to confront
colonialism in Africa.
We've just been reacting
since the 1960s, I believe,
since we got our independence
about 60-some years ago.
We're just reacting to
the colonial power system.
We have a broken
political system,
and nobody could confront
it because we don't even
know who's running it, if
it's Nigerians or other folks.
You know what I'm saying?
That's the issue is
it's so deep that we
as black people
around the world need
to begin to reflect and
see how connected we are,
how one we are.
And when we start putting
our energy to recoup energy,
there is nothing we cannot do.
 We're starting to see
some of that connectedness.
The death, unfortunately,
of George Floyd
has sparked a movement
across the world.
And we're seeing that now.
And you spoke about trauma.
And trauma is something that
is very real that you pull out
in the documentary.
As I sat and listened, I
was moved by how many--
almost all of the
folks on that film
has been through
some type of trauma.
 Yep.
 Right?
And how are we as a community
able to deal and work
with trauma and understand
that sometimes, our kids are
reacting to trauma?
They're not bad kids, right?
Sometimes they make bad
decisions, but some of that
is trauma.
And as an adult
male, I know myself,
dealing with some of
the micro-inequities
of a day to day,
sometimes what walks in
that door at the end
of the day is trauma.
DANIEL OYINLOYE: That's real.
 So are we creating spaces?
Are we creating that
opportunity for our kids
to find ways to
deal with trauma?
 Within the black community,
the only thing I feel
is I feel like we've
taxed ourselves so much.
And that's why I really like
the name of this documentary,
"I Can't Breathe."
So I hate to task more
black folks to do stuff.
That's how I feel like.
If I had a chance, I would
give more breaks to my people.
If I had money, I
would give money
to be able to take a break.
That, I think, is paramount.
And that helps the trauma.
And when it comes to
regenerative education,
when it comes to
resource, teaching folks,
I think we do have
a role to play.
Tell the stories to
the younger generation.
I think our elders, the black
elders need to step up to that
and focus the storytelling
to the younger generation
and let the younger
generation lead the way.
And I think that the younger
generation has to lead the way.
They also have to continue to
figure out and ask questions
and see what is
necessary, what's needed,
what kind of wisdom
they need to be
able to move forward as well.
So when it comes to trauma,
that's how I feel about it.
 And that's important that we
start to create a space here
in Duluth.
Right now, there's no space
for African-heritage people
to go to have that trauma, even
recognize it, let alone a place
where we can heal
and come together
and build a strong community
and strong and healthy kids
and families.
 Ultimately-- oh, I'm sorry.
 No, please.
 Ultimately when we
talk about trauma--
and I mean, I
[inaudible] often--
we can't even start to
heal from our trauma.
Because I was talking about how
we haven't had an opportunity
to breathe.
We haven't had an opportunity
to heal because it's literally
like we're bleeding.
Imagine all three of us
are sitting here bleeding.
And as I'm bleeding,
you're bleeding.
I come over, and I'm
like, oh, my goodness.
You're bleeding
way more than I am.
I need to go over there and
patch you up and bandage you.
And that's healing
for you, right?
Now, while I'm doing
that, I'm still bleeding.
And once I think that
that situation is somewhat
under control, I might
start putting the Band-Aids
on myself.
And then halfway through my
Band-Aid, Daniel's bleeding.
So now I'm over there.
I'm helping him.
Halfway through that,
you're bleeding again.
You know what I mean?
That's the state of where
the healing, I think,
for black people has been.
And we can't heal until
perpetrators figure out
what's going on with
them and heal themselves.
Oftentimes when we
talk about healing,
we're talking about victims.
The victim is bleeding.
We need to go over there.
But if I leave you,
and I go over there,
and the perpetrator
comes and does it again,
we're constantly in a circle.
We're constantly in a loop.
So when I think of
where we go next,
it is important for
people to heal all around.
Oftentimes when I think
of white supremacy
and I think of folks who
are racist, and just--
just believe in this
ideology, the thought of--
I understand it because
it's an easy way.
It's an easy route.
It is an easy way to say I'm
not going to deal with this.
Because confronting
this, confronting
what's going on in the
world, confronting what's
happening in these communities,
confronting racism,
is hard work.
It's not something that we
just get over like this.
So it's easy for me
to cop out and be
like, well, it's because
white folks are superior,
so now I don't have
to do the work.
And this is the
way things should
be because this is just how
it's supposed to be, right?
I think it's an easy cop out.
And I think that's what a
lot of people in this country
do because they
don't want to have
that uncomfortable conversation.
And until they start
having those conversations
in their homes, in
their workplaces,
in their communities,
we can't move forward.
Because no matter what
we do as a community,
we will still be brutalized
by those perpetrators.
And that just brings me to
conversations amongst ourselves
about we just need to get this,
or white people saying things
like, oh, you know,
black folks should just
work harder and pull
themselves up from the--
first of all, we built the shoe.
Just want to put that out there.
 That's right.
 We built the shoe.
And you know--
 This is true.
 And even after
that, every other time
that we've tried to
say, OK, you know
what, we're going
to do this work,
we're met with anger by them.
You know?
Even when you think of black
Wall Street, it's hard for us
to build black wealth
in this country.
It's hard for us to do a lot
of things in this country.
It's hard for us to be.
It's hard for us to breathe.
And I keep coming back
to that because I just
feel like that is really
the phrase, the core of it
all is that healing all
around needs to happen.
And those deeper conversations
need to take place.
And there is no space
and time for it.
Every time, every
space is an opportunity
for that conversation.
 Can I add on to
what you mentioned?
In terms of the black community
and the whole community,
like my wife has
mentioned to you,
of the healing process
of all, I think
what you were
trying to bring up,
Carl, as a very core action
point, especially in the Duluth
space, is space, is that Duluth
does not have space for--
we don't have space
as a black community.
And even the indigenous
community here barely
has space as well.
So what I'm saying here
is that, like you said,
practical things can be
done in the larger picture
to help facilitate spaces or to
give spaces to our communities.
 I want to thank our
guests for joining me
for our special presentation
of "I Can't Breathe--
The Clayton Jackson
McGhie Memorial."
WRPT is producing a series
of special "Almanac North"
episodes this summer titled
"Focus on Systemic Racism."
To continue these conversations,
if you have additional ideas
or topics that you'd like to see
covered in this special series,
please reach out to
wdse.org or connect
with us on social media.
You'll find us on
Facebook and YouTube.
You can watch this and other
"Almanac North" programs
at wdse.org or on the PBS app.
For our crew in the
studio, I'm Carl Crawford,
and thanks for watching.
