It's been a few years now, since a young mother was gunned down on a cold, dark ramp near the freeway. Kendra James was only 21 years old on the night she took her last breath and bled her life away through the jagged hole made by a police bullet. Remember? It was Scott McCollister who pulled the trigger. He shot her through her chest, then dragged her out of the car, handcuffed her shaking arms behind her back, and lay her, face-down, on the cold, hard concrete. And he left her there to die. The corporate media told us it was all right, because after all, she must have been "just another crack addict."
Every time I think of this, I remember why the police will always be my enemy. I remember that they can kill without mercy, and without consequence. I remember that their guns are always loaded, and always pointed at those out on the fringes of "respectable" society. They prowl the haunts of poor people, people of color, homeless people, people who don't fly American flags. They use laws, bullets, and machismo to keep "certain" people on their knees, and then they pretend that makes them heroes. It does not.