My father suffered from alcoholism, and, consequently, my family suffered as well.  The single most painful thing about living in a family with a father who suffers from alcoholism is the denial, and that is quite a statement as anyone who has lived with an alcoholic knows.  Until he became compromised by a stroke and eventually died, my father, a rational, well-respected Professor of Physiology, a kind and decent man, denied he suffered from alcoholism.  His denial was not simply a matter of disagreeing with me; it required a trained and focused ability to either ignore or rationalize away incontrovertible, empirical facts, like the bruises he left on my mother, or the way he slammed my brother into the kitchen cabinets, or the time he held me under the water in the bathtub because I complained about cleaning it.    

I have witnessed the kind of reaction statements like the one I just wrote elicit from third parties.  We do not like it when people air their dirty laundry in public.  The communal reaction to dark, personal matters that come to light is to cringe, to change the subject, to hold up a hand and say “TMI.” 

Our reaction is not necessarily malicious or immoral.  It is human.  We feel helpless, awkward, and embarrassed.  Nevertheless, through our silence, we participate in the denial.  Looking away makes it easier for someone like my father to deny the evidence of his abuse.  Worse, it makes it possible for a well-educated scientist to override his years of training and not only selectively reject the empirical data in front of him, but to take the next step and actually believe his own alternative reality.  My father’s rejection of my reality in favor of his alternative reality caused me as much emotional trauma as his violence.  Compound his denial with a communal conspiracy of silence and it is as if I was, for parts of my childhood, the haunted character in Edvard Munch’s famous painting “The Scream.” 

Watching Derek Chauvin murder George Floyd while three trained police officers stood by as witnesses without intervening brought back that same silent scream.  One Princeton professor, trying to explain how he felt, stumbled before saying, “I couldn’t process it.  It broke me.”  Of all the horrors embedded in that video, the image that haunts me most is the nonchalant way the murderer had his hands in his pocket oblivious to the pleas of Mr. Floyd, as if instead of slowly crushing the life from another person, the officer was waiting on his lunch order.  

My father’s denial was a symptom of alcoholism, as was his anger and abuse.  As a trained lawyer, I understand and agree that the element of intent or willfulness is important in assessing culpability.  A “cold-blooded,” carefully planned murder is, both legally and morally, more depraved than a so-called crime of passion.  Indeed, most states’ criminal codes distinguish between these degrees of murder with jail sentences tailored accordingly.  Nonetheless, all homicides, from involuntary manslaughter to murder, are acts of violence that cause suffering to innocent people.  So too, my father’s acts of violence caused harm.  He was not, however, a morally corrupt person.  To make this statement is neither a rationalization nor a defense of my father’s conduct.  Believing an alcoholic has control over his addiction and can simply stop drinking is a failure to understand the addiction.  A common misconception, however, is to think that blaming my father’s conduct on his disease somehow excuses my father’s abuse.  It does not, but it does bring some comfort knowing that his abuse did not originate from hatred or depravity.  He loved me.  Understanding that fact took many years. 

The actions of Derek Chauvin did originate from hatred and depravity.  To say otherwise is to deny the reality starkly captured on that video.  Hatred and depravity are as easily evident in the nonchalance exhibited by Chauvin’s cold, slow-motion murder as they are in a violent stabbing.  In fact, Chauvin’s actions are all the more depraved precisely because of his utter indifference for almost eight minutes to the suffering and cries for help from Mr. Floyd.  Chauvin is entitled under our system of justice to due process and a fair trial.  He is entitled to a presumption of innocence until proven guilty.  Those entitlements, however, are in place to protect the criminal justice system, to make sure, for example, that when Chauvin is brought into court, all the proper procedures are followed.  For example, twelve impartial jurors need to be selected, and the video has to be authenticated before being entered as evidence.  These are necessary procedural matters, and Chauvin’s defense attorney has a duty to make sure these procedures are followed.  Protecting the judicial process, however, does not mean that those of us who have seen the video are required to deny what we saw, or to interpret it in some alternative way.  The judicial process is not harmed by the truth, nor does it require us to deny the truth.  It only requires us to refrain from retaliatory violence in favor of allowing the judicial process to work.

But what if facts and history have demonstrated that the judicial process does not work?  What happens when the judicial process becomes part of the systematic denial of our reality?

I was eighteen years old when my mother showed me the melon-sized bruise on her thigh.  I remember her sitting on her bed and raising her skirt to show me.  She has no memory of this happening.  I remember my father slamming my younger brother into the kitchen cabinets because he was not helping to clean up the dishes.  He called my brother a “feather-loose” and forced him through his tears to say his new name.  Some of my siblings do not recall this happening, but they do remember the name “feather-loose.”

I do not think the violence over the past several days in cities across the United States is either a productive or morally appropriate response to the killing of George Floyd.  I know his family has said the same thing.  But I understand the outrage, the silent scream that cannot be processed, that erupts in madness and violence.  The murder of George Floyd breaks us.  The denial of what happened and what, because of the denial, continues to happen will destroy us. 

Don’t look away.  Cringe, be embarrassed, feel helpless, but don’t look away. 

Say his name: George Floyd.  Say what happened: he was murdered.