A year after the murder of George Floyd, Americans react to his death

For nine minutes and 29 seconds, people across the country watched as officer Derek Chauvin pressed his knee into George Floyd’s neck. What they felt – anger, fear, pain – would move people across the nation to action.

USA TODAY asked leaders from across the nation what Floyd’s death meant to them. They used words like trauma and turmoil, fear and sadness, but also hope that things might be different this time, that justice might prevail, that the fight for change would lead to tangible results. For some, those results include passage of the George Floyd Justice in Policing Act, which bans chokeholds and no-knock warrants and limits qualified immunity so police officers aren’t shielded from certain lawsuits. The legislation, which passed the House of Representatives in March, would also prohibit racial and religious profiling and create a national police misconduct registry that would compile complaints to help hold officers accountable.

All these leaders say something has to change.

The mayor of Atlanta worried about her four Black children. A human rights leader described feeling yanked out of his body. America’s poet laureate said she had witnessed a public lynching.

Here are their stories.

– Veda Morgan is an editor with the USA TODAY Network

Bernice A. King is the youngest child of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and Coretta Scott King and is CEO of The Martin Luther King, Jr. Center for Nonviolent Social Change. King and the center recently launched BE LOVE, a global movement for justice.

“We’ve got some difficult days ahead.”

My father, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., made this statement the eve before he was assassinated 53 years ago. He knew that, if we did not heed his prophetic voice telling us that “the clock of destiny is ticking out. … Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksand of racial injustice,” we would face difficult days.

And we encountered extremely difficult days when technology captured tragedy and people throughout our “World House” viewed a video of a fellow human, a Black man, being callously, cavalierly murdered by law enforcement. Nine minutes, 29 seconds. That’s how long former officer Derek Chauvin pressed his knee on George Floyd’s neck. What a ghastly reflection of a nation perpetually soul-sick from its consumption of white supremacy and its unrepentant racism.

Therefore, while I cried and breathed a sigh of relief when a jury found Chauvin guilty, I know that the trauma and turmoil in the hearts and minds of many persist. The struggle for civil and human rights continues and the question remains: When will we, collectively and across the globe, stand determined to make racism, in all of its manifestations, a thing of the past?

It is my hope that, as we elevate our strategy for true peace and our conversation around who we should be as an interconnected humanity, more people will answer that question by proclaiming, with the fierce urgency of now, "We can’t wait." In this critical hour, we must, by the multitudes, rise to Be Love, implement the demands of justice, and create the Beloved Community. This will prevent the alternate outcome, about which my father said will happen if we do not make justice a priority: “Social tensions will grow and the turbulence in the streets will persist despite disapproval or repressive action.”

Let’s Be Love.

Cory Booker is a U.S. senator from New Jersey and a 2020 Democratic presidential candidate.

George Floyd was a loving father, a devoted brother, a partner and a friend, and he deserves to be remembered as those who love him remember him – as someone whose smile lit up the room, who was caring, who believed in people. 

George Floyd’s life mattered.

Since before I was born, we have had a disturbing tradition in America of learning the names of people, the majority of them Black, because of the tragedy of their deaths at the hands of law enforcement. But the reality is that for every name we know, there are so many more we do not. To be Black in America is to be forced to learn how to protect ourselves and keep ourselves alive in a nation that fails again and again to protect us.

America failed George Floyd and so many others before and after him. But in the wake of George Floyd’s death, we have seen a nation awaken to the reality Black Americans live every day. We have seen people across the country and across the world demonstrate that changing the reality we live in is not an impossible task, it is our collective calling. Great Americans before us have demonstrated what this moment so urgently demands: not just the right words, not just our voices, but action.

Keisha Lance Bottoms is the 60th mayor of Atlanta.

Fear. Anger. Sadness. Each word alone describes the myriad of emotions I felt watching the brutal murder of George Floyd. I did not want to see it. … It hurt too much to watch.  But like the mangled body of Emmett Till, we all had to bear witness to this tragedy, for even the hope of change to take hold.  

As a mother, I thought about my children. I am raising four Black children in a world where, at that moment, the value of their lives did not seem to matter. I felt fear. Fear that I could not protect them. Fear that they may find some definition of themselves in the madness. Fear that what happened to Mr. Floyd could just as easily have happened to one of them, and their cries and pleas for help would go unnoticed. 

In the streets of Atlanta, I saw the anger and anguish that I saw in my kitchen when I looked at the face of my then 18-year-old son. 

Maya Angelou said that "the child who is not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth." Suddenly, not only was I in the midst of that burning village, I was leading it, and I had no answers. I felt despair.

I thought of the generations before us, who had experienced the same, and more.  Yet, they found purpose in making their voices heard through their votes. I thought of my children, and my dreams for their future, and I felt hope. 

As a mayor and as a mother, I have to believe that for as tragic as the murder of Mr. Floyd was, the awakening it has created across our country is not in vain. It hurts too much to think otherwise.  

Alphonso David is president of Human Rights Campaign.

I feel the urgency of a time when the value of Black lives are debated in public squares. I feel yanked out of my body, cast deeper into an unprotected class. I feel the whiplash of living in a country where the police are suspicious of my Blackness, while legislatures seek to erase LGBTQ lives.

I feel catapulted into the air, unaware of where I will land on the roulette as the debate rages.

As I descend, I see the ground shifting – this time, a Black life did matter. And that’s a song I hear the world over; the sound fills me with an audacity to hope. This is accountability, not justice, and it feels like everything to a "people non grata" who have fought for centuries to have our pains seen, our wounds prevented. This verdict is something to land on.

Earthbound, I hold Floyd’s story as mythology, a fire to illuminate the origins of the LGBTQ rights movement, which started as a fight for police accountability, a fire to breathe new life into the bodies of humans who have the power to eradicate police killings of Black people as a systemic outcome, a time that seems elusive but for our will to fight for it, precedent no longer withstanding.

Nick Cannon is the host of "The Masked Singer" on Fox.

"If you stick a knife in my back 9 inches and pull it out 6 inches, that's not progress. If you pull it all the way out, that's not progress. Progress is healing the wound that the blow made. They haven't pulled the knife out; they won't even admit that it's there." – Malcolm X, 1964

America is still wounded.

I went to the corner of E 38th St and Chicago Avenue on May 27 (Brother George was slain on May 25), to Cup Foods.  Hugs, tears and consolation filled the streets.  People from all walks, shades and classes were united.  I’m there, dressed in all BLACK. “PLEASE I Can’t Breathe AGAIN” on the front of my shirt and “EVERYTHING HURTS” on the back.  These were George Floyd’s final words.  I sit there and ask myself: Why am I here? Why are any of us here?

People asked why I rushed to Minneapolis, and I’d say, “to prevent this from happening again.” But at least 200 Black people in the U.S. have been killed by police since George was taken from us. America is still wounded. Malcolm X’s words ring louder today than ever before.

My jegna mentors, Mr. Dick Gregory and Harry Belafonte, taught me to “Be There.” They both echoed the importance of showing up for my people – so that’s what I will do – with my voice, my presence, my mind, my time and most of all, my LOVE.

I will continue searching for the healing that America needs, but all I can do in the meantime is show up and “Be There.”

Julián Castro is the former mayor of San Antonio, secretary of Housing and Urban Development under the Obama administration and a 2020 Democratic presidential candidate.

One year later, it’s clear George Floyd’s murder will serve as a marker in history by which we measure our progress toward racial equality.

Floyd’s death helped spark the largest protest movement in our nation’s history – one that inspired tens of millions of Americans of all backgrounds to take to the streets and say unequivocally, “Black Lives Matter.” It’s a movement led by organizers and activists who have carried the weight of lives lost before Floyd – from Michael Brown, to Eric Garner, to Sandra Bland, and Breonna Taylor, to name just a few.

America breathed a sigh of relief as Floyd’s killer, Derek Chauvin, was convicted for murder. Yet, it was but a small measure of justice against the backdrop of nearly 1,000 lives lost to police violence in the time since his death.

Chauvin’s conviction reminded us that despite some progress toward racial justice in the last year, we haven’t made nearly enough. And it was a reminder that the movement sparked by George Floyd’s death is about more than justice for one man. It is about tearing down the systemic racism that prevents us from achieving full equality. In fact, true justice for George Floyd and other victims of police violence won’t be realized until we reimagine public safety to protect all people and serve all people equally. May we have the courage to do so.

The Rev. William J. Barber II is the president of Repairers of the Breach, a religious nonprofit based in Goldsboro, North Carolina, and co-chair of the Poor People’s Campaign. 

When I watched the video of Derek Chauvin kneeling on George Floyd’s neck, I saw the hollow eyes I’ve looked into as politicians in statehouses and in Congress blamed poor people for their plight. And when I heard Mr. Floyd say, “I can’t breathe,” I heard the gasps from the poor people who were dying from COVID-19, even as Floyd breathed his last breath. Something deep within me said, “This is wrong, and it is deeply connected to so much of what is wrong in our society.”

James Baldwin wrote that “not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced.” But we so often hesitate to face the reality of inequality in America. We like to trust the myth of exceptionalism that says, however brutal our past, we have come a long way. We cling to the lies that hide our violence, I suspect, because we are afraid of being consumed by despair. 

But facing the inequities that Floyd’s murder and COVID-19’s ravages unveiled has not overwhelmed me because I have been surrounded by a movement of people who, though rejected by this society in so many ways, are nevertheless rising up and insisting that another way is possible. Yes, racist violence is real – in policing and in public policy. But a moral fusion coalition that is determined to reconstruct America is also real. Our hope is in the mourning that refuses to look away but resolves to work together for the America that has never yet been but nevertheless will be.

Joy Harjo is the poet laureate of the United States and a member of the Muscogee Creek Nation.

On May 20, 2020, I witnessed a public lynching. George Floyd, a Black man in Minneapolis was held down and killed. We all watched, over and over again in virtual America. He could have been my father, my brother, my cousin, uncle or son. In the original teachings, we are all related and are family.

Not only did George Floyd die that day, so did the progression of the dream set forth by the civil rights movement, a dream of equality that motivated Native peoples of my generation to reclaim selfhood and sovereignty. I despaired. I wanted my family close to protect them, because the color of their skin, their tribal identity made them vulnerable.

We marched at the height of the pandemic to affirm Black Lives Matter. The march began at an intersection near the boundary of three tribal nations. We were forced to Indian Territory, now Oklahoma, by gunpoint from our homes in the South.

This intersection was also the original townsite of what was once the most prosperous Black community in America. 2021 marks 100 years since racists in Tulsa massacred the inhabitants and burned that town down.

Yet, the dream of equality and justice continues to live in us, our children and their children. George Floyd will always carry forth that dream. You cannot kill the spirit of that which affirms justice and equality.

Thasunda Brown Duckett is the president and chief executive officer of the Teachers Insurance and Annuity Association of America (TIAA.)

Following the death of George Floyd, my heart was heavy, and in many ways, I am still processing that pain. But at the same time, this tragic event also helped to strengthen my resolve, my purpose and my passion to inspire and create change. We need to continue to take action and sustain that momentum in order to have meaningful systemic change. A system of deeply entrenched racial inequality and injustice isn't going to be dismantled overnight. Structural racism compounded by implicit bias touches every aspect of our lives. It's something that's deeply ingrained in the social, political and economic fabric of our society, resulting in persistent inequities in housing, employment, education and healthcare system. Tackling such a complex, deeply rooted problem requires active engagement from every single one of us. The murder of George Floyd sparked our nation to action. But we shouldn’t need a horrific death to serve as a catalyst for change. It’s my sincerest hope that we can continue to do this work while avoiding unnecessary tragedy.

Jacob Frey is the mayor of Minneapolis.

A year after the murder of George Floyd, a voice that continues to resonate is George Floyd’s daughter Gianna’s. Last June she declared her dad would “change the world.” From dinner tables to city halls and the halls of Congress, that conviction must shape our conversations and actions moving forward.

As I’ve worked to learn and grow as a public servant and as a new father in our world today, I’m confronted with my daughter Frida’s privilege, knowing the color of her skin will afford her opportunities and life experiences too frequently unavailable to her Black peers. That chasm of inequities is felt in nearly every facet of society, from access to housing and healthcare, and throughout the history of policing in America. It’s felt in the classroom and the workplace and in our streets where thousands have marched for equality, representation, and change.

Minneapolis stands amid one of the most consequential chapters of our history. It’s impossible to course-correct 400 years of systemic oppression in one single policy or effort, but those of us in elected positions have the responsibility – and honor – of creating the meaningful change to meet this moment that Gianna accurately identified nearly one year ago.

Sadiqa N. Reynolds, president and CEO of the Louisville Urban League in Kentucky.

We heard the lies about Ahmaud Arbery. 

Police called Breonna Taylor a female suspect. 

We watched the calm, methodical murder of George Floyd.

There was a pandemic. The Louisville Urban League couldn’t stop serving. But we had to carve out space to cry, grieve, contemplate the murders, both witnessed and unseen. 

Chauvin didn’t need his pocketed hands to balance his weight. He had the grace of a murderous gymnast. George Floyd was strong enough to overpower him, but failing to comply would also be deadly. When Floyd called “momma,” we wondered if spirits visit Black people as we are killed by our country, without trial or verdict. Do some intentionally raise children to adulthood instilling the belief that Black people have no mother to cry out to? Where does one learn dehumanization?

Our protection required protest. We were boiling over in the powerlessness of what was laid bare. Because of Ahmaud, Breonna, and George, we forgot the fear of tear gas. The boardroom could not contain the righteous rage fueled by the disregard and disrespect asphyxiating us. And America can’t contain the smoldering fires that will burn until justice is exercised, finally extinguishing the flames. The Chauvin verdict opened the tap. 

Johnnetta Betsch Cole, Ph.D., is president and national chair of the National Council of Negro Women Inc. She is the former president of Spelman College and Bennett College and the former director of the Smithsonian Institution's National Museum of African Art.

When I watched the video of bystanders pleading with Police Officer Derek Chauvin to take his knee off of George Floyd’s neck where it was for nine minutes and 29 seconds, I felt what most conscientious Americans felt – outrage and profound grief. And like many Black Americans of my generation, I had flashbacks to growing up in the Jim Crow South when it was not a knee but a rope that took the lives of many Black women, men and children.

I am also reminded that in the midst of our trauma, we can display enormous bravery. The only reason we know about Derek Chauvin is because of the tremendous courage of Darnella Frazier, a teenager who recorded the brutal murder. Minnesota Attorney General Keith Ellison put his career and reputation on the line to bring Chauvin to justice, supported by a number of law enforcement officials who courageously upheld their commitment to justice by testifying.

I was dragged out of my grief by the sight of millions of people around the world nonviolently marching for justice. May we choose to be brave so that we will always do what is right. Passing the George Floyd Justice in Policing Act is the right thing to do.

Ras J. Baraka is the mayor of Newark, New Jersey. 

The murder of George Floyd represented the ugly face of a pandemic that Black people have suffered through for generations – systemic racism – and his loss of life was not in vain.

This sits with me daily. This is our chance to reimagine public safety and cripple white supremacy in policing, and if not, we risk failing miserably by tiptoeing at a moment that is calling for monumental change.

This is the time to have real partnership with the community using funding from police budgets, and the opportunity to address the trauma caused by years of racial injustice. In cities like Newark, New Jersey, we push for residency requirements and civilian complaint review boards, which are just a couple of the many things that should be done throughout the nation to affect change. The needle is moving, the continued civil rights discussion is good, but we will find true change in not only tireless works but in the reimagination of policing.

Carlos Watson is co-founder and CEO of Ozy Media and host of the YouTube talk show "The Carlos Watson Show."

I remember exactly where I was, as a high school junior, when the space shuttle Challenger exploded. I remember with painful detail the entire day of Sept. 11, 2001, the mind-numbing vastness of loss. Unlike these culture-shaping events, I don’t remember the moment I heard of George Floyd’s death. I probably pushed it away to that fear-laden corner of my brain, where I hold the countless other unjust deaths of Black America.

I remember the movement over the moment. I remember the hope and fear of feeling like this time things might be different, the late-night meetings with the OZY team, asking what impact a media company could make. And I remember reflecting on my role as a Black CEO and journalist. What was my responsibility? 

No movement has made a greater impact on OZY. A year later, those late-night conversations have led to a new talk show centered on real conversation, "The Carlos Watson Show", and a bold campaign to #ResetAmerica. We have made it our mission to have tough conversations, highlight underrepresented issues, fight harder and listen more. If something positive is to come from this past year of racial reckoning, I hope it's a reset of America.

Karen Bass is a U.S. Representative for California.

George Floyd was born in 1973 – the same year I became involved in fighting against police brutality in Los Angeles. Nearly two decades later, Rodney King was mercilessly beaten by police officers on videotape. When I saw that tape on the news, I was not horrified or surprised. I was hopeful because I believed that now, finally, no one would be able to deny that police brutality is real. But the brutality continued and the push for national change fell flat.

When the video of George Floyd being tortured and murdered circulated 29 years later, hundreds of thousands took to the streets. Again, our country found itself at a moral moment and again, I am hopeful. Thirty years to the day after Rodney King was beaten, the House of Representatives passed the George Floyd Justice in Policing Act of 2021 – the most significant piece of police reform legislation ever passed by a body of Congress. But the bill is not yet law, and videos still emerge, week after week, of unarmed Black people being brutalized and killed by police.

We cannot miss another moment like this to enact change. We must act.

Jay Xu is the director and CEO of the Asian Art Museum of San Francisco.

George Floyd’s horrifying death opened many eyes to the brutal reality of structural racism experienced by Black people and people of color. The summer of 2020 was one of mass movements that brought millions together, action which compelled us at the Asian Art Museum to confront our own legacies with urgency and openness: from removing the bust of our racist and anti-Semitic founding donor from display, to investing further in equity and inclusion, to convening a cross-departmental “Re-History” team. The goal has always been to figure out how we can become a valued and trusted resource for everyone—what I call “Asian for all.”

The anniversary of Floyd’s murder underscores the seriousness of that goal: the surge of anti-Asian violence across the country shows how the fight for racial justice is far from over and why the community bonds forged this past year are just as vital now. Without community, without partners, without honesty and openness, there is very little that can meaningfully become better. In the end, even art without honesty is just propaganda.

That’s why examining the record, asking hard questions, and updating the story are what a museum does best. I’m a scholar at heart, but one joined with many others in a mission to let the extraordinary art of the past and the incredible artists of today show us the way forward.

Chris Johnson is director of the young adults' ministry at Good Hope Missionary Baptist Church in Houston and was a friend of George Floyd.

I knew Floyd personally. Growing up in Third Ward, Texas, my emotions spanned a wide range regarding his murder. Angst-laden anger comprised my feelings. At his funeral, I sat near Nadia Fischer, Sabrina Fulton and Calandria Simpson Kemp. All were black mothers whose experiences paralleled the Floyd family’s.  

Our exchange included the impact on minority children. Can you imagine childhood in the era of George Floyd? Can you imagine living amid unsurpassed technology, a Black president, and an expanding multi-ethnic America while being viewed through a Euro-American racial prism?  

Eleanor Roosevelt noted, “It is better to light a candle than curse the darkness.” We are obligated to create the world we want for our children – where people are treated fairly regardless of personal attributes. George’s death has fueled life.  

Our generation no longer accepts the status quo of racism and intolerance. We envision a world that transcends antiquated hatreds, fears, anxieties and prejudices that have handicapped previous generations. This generation embraces its role in the new civil rights movement.  

Thank you, Big Floyd. You are the Emmett Till of our generation. Your martyrdom ignites the world’s conscience. We continually fight for Floyd’s justice and equality for mankind.  

Noah Harris is the student body president at Harvard University in Cambridge, Massachusetts. He is the first Black man to be elected to that position in the school’s 384-year history. 

Before May 25, 2020, I underestimated the racial impact I could have as a leader at a predominantly white institution. By going to Harvard, I am fulfilling the wildest dreams of my ancestors who were enslaved in Mississippi just two centuries ago. Being the first Black man to be student body president comes with a responsibility not just to push Harvard to new heights, but to also use my platform to help people who look like me outside of Harvard’s gates. The murder of George Floyd made that fact clearer to me than it had ever been. 

For Gen Z, these deaths and viral hashtags for justice are all too familiar. What do you see when you turn on the TV and another Black person has been killed? That answer is different for each of us. Some see a tragedy while others see a statistic. I see people who could have been my friends, family or even myself. We must end this generational cycle of murder at the hands of the police and domestic terrorists. Nothing will change until we all have empathy for Black people who continue to live in fear in this country. The stakes are far too high. 

Winona LaDuke is the executive director of Honor the Earth and lives on the White Earth reservation in northern Minnesota. She is a two-time vice-presidential candidate for the Green Party. 

George Floyd’s death was a painful but familiar reminder to the Indigenous community about systemic police brutality. Native people understand that the historical trauma of such systemic violence now extends from Chicago Avenue to Standing Rock to the 7th Cavalry. It represents five centuries of government-sanctioned ethnocide and genocide that has become epi-genetically engrained in the lives of Natives, passed down from generation to generation. It often leads to higher addiction, suicide, and overall poorer physical and mental health rates than any other ethnic groups.

The underlying racism that fueled Floyd’s tragedy is widespread not just in big cities but here in the Deep North, where there are more Natives in jail, or who die from police per capita than anywhere else in rural Minnesota. What welds the urban plight of Black Americans to that of the Indigenous in the north is that a military response is increasingly common for those who demand justice for the police murders of Black and Brown citizens. This is the conversation that needs to be amplified a year after George’s death.

And yet today a Canadian pipeline company, Enbridge, and Minnesota’s Public Utilities Commission, are financing to date almost $1 million in the police repression of those multi-racial Water Protectors opposed to Line 3, a tar sands oil pipeline that many don’t want with massive amounts of new militarized equipment and manpower. All to push the dirtiest oil in the world through Anishinaabe lands and the state during a time of escalating climate chaos.

It is clear that racial justice and environmental justice are intertwined. In memory of Mr. Floyd, all of us should work toward a sustainable future with both.

Ted Wheeler is the mayor of Portland, Oregon. 

Justice was served by the verdict in the Chauvin trial. Derek Chauvin was rightfully declared guilty for the murder of George Floyd. The verdict won’t bring back George Floyd, and it won’t repair the damage, but it is an encouraging waypoint on the long road to justice and equity. That we live in a world where this can be the outcome gives me hope about the future and our ability to make the reforms we need in Portland. My colleagues on the City Council and I are committed to the hard work ahead.

It’s important to acknowledge the pain, trauma and harm these events cause and the systemic racism that still permeates Portland and our nation. It’s important to acknowledge Black Americans’ resilience and tenacity and commitment to justice in the face of unrelenting barriers and bias – conscious and unconscious. And, it’s important to acknowledge how much more remains to be done to create a safe, welcoming, and equitable Portland and United States.

The verdict was not a solution. It’s was not an endpoint. It was a milestone of the wrongs we must continue to right. It’s a reminder that there’s so much more to do.

Lisa Bender is president of the Minneapolis City Council.

The global outcry over George Floyd’s murder by police has changed the City of Minneapolis and sparked a national conversation about racism and equity that is long overdue. George was a member of our community, a father, uncle, partner and friend. He should be here today, building the brighter future he sought when he moved to Minnesota.

As an elected leader, I have seen many neighbors open their eyes to injustice and their hearts to the possibility of a more just future. There has been an outpouring of cries for change not just to our system of policing but to all of the systems that perpetuate racial inequity and harm. We need people to stick with this, to listen to each other and work together for meaningful change to both stop police violence and invest in the kinds of communities we all want to live in.

As a community, we can and must provide a better system of safety that actually keeps people safe and we can and must address head-on the racism that is at the heart of our systems: there is no moving forward without both.

Jeff Hayden was the assistant Senate minority leader for Minnesota and represented the district in Minneapolis where George Floyd died.

I vividly recall the first time my mother taught me how to cross the street. She told me to look both ways, always proceed with caution, and to watch out for police officers. She said if they stop me, I must do everything they tell me. My mother knew this scenario would happen at some point in my life, and it was a pivotal moment for my socialization and development. I was learning and experiencing how systemic racism and inequality have plagued our country. 

George Floyd was killed eight blocks away from my home. Though painful and traumatic, the murder of Black men at the hands of police officers are not isolated incidents. Communities that are often overpoliced are those that lack economic vitality. In addition to police reform, I worked tirelessly on workforce and economic development in communities of color while I served as Democratic Leader in the Minnesota State Senate. 

I support the George Floyd Justice in Policing Act and urge Congress to pass this meaningful legislation. Slow and incremental change is what we’ve been doing for decades. We need transformational and structural change because minor changes won’t fix major problems. 

California State Sen. Steven Bradford represents Senate District 35, which includes parts of Los Angeles County. 

Among the dozens of Black Americans that are killed by police each year, George Floyd’s murder was especially haunting. It was nothing else, but a modern-day lynching and an enraging display of lack of self-awareness and reverence for life by Officer Derek Chauvin and the others that surrounded him. Most of all, the entire agonizing 9 minutes and 29 seconds were recorded, and plainly available for the world to see.

This was no revelation for me. I and my brothers and sisters of color already know how our lives are valued in comparison to our white counterparts. We already know the risks we take by simply walking, driving, talking, existing. What happened to George Floyd happens every day and it’s the beatings, shootings, and murders that we don’t have on camera that frighten me.

Although Chauvin was fired and his police license could be subject to revocation, many people don’t realize that California is one of four states without a mechanism to hold officers accountable. That is why it is imperative that California pass my legislation, Senate Bill 2 in order to decertify bad police and keep these stories from repeating.

Rahna Eptin is executive director of MoveOn, a progressive group.

2020 was a year of survival — survival from the pandemic, survival from a devastating economic crisis, survival from the relentless attacks from Donald Trump and his rogue White House. This sustained flight-or-flight mode made us numb — until we saw the video of Mr. Floyd’s murder. It broke us open. We began to feel again. We saw the need to build bridges to reach one another — even as we were living six feet apart.  

My whole life has been spent building bridges between cultures. As the mixed-race daughter of an Iranian immigrant woman and a Black father, I spent my childhood navigating different cultures — swimming within their magnificent similarities and maneuvering their distinct differences. Chico, California, where I grew up, had neither a large Iranian nor Black community. There was so much translating and helping others understand these different identities. 

Now, once again, I am living this reality — this time as the first woman of color to lead MoveOn, one of the largest progressive organizations in the country. I find myself explaining new ideas like “defund the police'' to our members, what it means and why it is a cause all Americans should take up. We are helping members channel their hurt and rage into fighting for others as much as we do ourselves. 

Our country is in the midst of a battle too often defined between the right and the left. But the reality is that the battle is actually about whether we value human dignity and the sanctity of life and community above all else. George Floyd deserved to live. Black people in this country deserve to live free from fear. Everyone deserves to live in a country that values Black lives. We can no longer be numb. We must all build bridges.

Alex Padilla is a U.S. senator representing California.

Like many parents of color, I experienced George Floyd’s murder through a painful double vision: my own grief and anger, and the anguish of my three young sons. When the footage of Derek Chauvin kneeling on the neck of a pleading Floyd began to play on television, my kids were in the same room. And my eldest son, not too much younger than the 17-year-old who captured the video on her cellphone, was particularly shaken.

The acute pain of George Floyd’s murder reverberated through our home and across Black and Brown communities. That pain was deepened by the inequalities that persist in our neighborhoods – inequalities laid bare by the pandemic, from housing and health care to policing and education.  

Our shared pain reignited a collective call for justice.

One year later, we must remain focused on the systemic reforms we need. Change never comes easily, but the power of our communities working together can and will create a better future. That’s the promise I made to my sons, and the promise I carry with me in the pursuit of justice for all our children.