I’m a Black Man in Missouri—Marcellus Williams’ Execution Reveals a Hidden Truth

When I was in the seventh or eighth grade, I remember my Mother picking me up from school to grab ice cream. I always loved these Mother and son dates we had. We went to Baskin Robbins, an ice cream parlor in Brookside, a predominately white neighborhood in Kansas City, Mo. As we were eating ice cream, I was trying to strategically stuff two large scoops of cookies and cream in my mouth, but after getting it all over my shirt, my Mother’s expression turned different.
She wiped drips of the cookies and cream from my mouth and began to talk about my school and class mates. “LeRon, when you get older, you will be judged differently than some of the other kids.” I was confused, and asked, “Why Mama?” Trying to figure out how to communicate this important fact to a Middle Schooler, my Mother gently answered, “Because baby, we are Black, and being Black means we gotta’ play by different rules. We’re seen differently.”
Still confused, but realizing my Mom had said something very important, I said, “Okay.” I resumed eating my ice cream, but the mood had changed. What my Mom said stayed with me. I didn’t realize it then, but the seed was planted in how I became to understand my place in the world, and how we are viewed as Black people in America.
One thing I’ve learned about being Black in America is that you don’t have to commit a crime to be convicted of a crime. It still resonates today. Majority of African-American males I know has a story of being accused of something they did not do.
From an early age, this is our experience. If we are shopping in a grocery or department, we are sometimes followed by the staff because they think we are thieves. If I am walking through a predominately white neighborhood, I sometimes notice that police may “magically appear” because I look “suspicious.”
If I am driving with my friends, doing nothing, there is a chance that I could be pulled over and accused of a crime. In one instance, I was even handcuffed at my own home because someone thought that I was breaking in. Sadly, as a Black man in the U.S., being arrested for something you have not done is deemed normal. I cannot tell you how many times my friends and I have “fitted the description” for a crime that occurred, only to be released because we did not do it.
I used to get mad when I was accused of robbery, selling drugs, or any other illegal activity, and pulled over for no reason, now I just sigh. I am so desensitized to being wrongfully arrested that I chalk it up as another part of my experience.
The unfortunate case of Marcellus Williams—a Black man convicted of the murder of reporter Lisha Gayle and sentenced to death is a story many of us know. We are all familiar with the U.S. over-policing Black neighborhoods and arresting Black men at rates higher than any group.
We all know the stories of George Stinney, Ronald Cotton, and Curtis Flowers, Black men and boys who were wrongfully imprisoned or executed because they are Black. We all know the need for various Innocence Projects across the country that helps to exonerate Black men, who have the highest rates of cases being overturned. Every African-American person understands the risk vs. reward of living while Black, and yet this is our existence.
In my gut, before Williams’ execution, I had very little hope that he would be spared. I am from Missouri—I believe that the state has racist tendencies because of our history with segregation, and how ill-treated we are. Still, seeing the clemency and appeals to the Supreme Court denied, my heart just dropped.
I should not be surprised about racism in Missouri—I have experienced it all my life, however, Williams execution tore a hole in a heart that has been ripped apart my entire life. To describe it is a feeling of hopelessness and disappointment that we have not progressed enough. The late great Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. once said, “The arch of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice,” but I do not believe that today.
We understand that even with all the evidence in the world, testimonies, and cooperation from the district attorney, if you a Black man, you are sometimes, if not often from my experience, seen as guilty.
The frustrating thing about this is there is nothing we can do about it. African Americans can achieve great feats, accomplish their goals, get married, raise families, and be happy, but then the execution of a possibly innocent Black man is so jarring. It shakes you out of your dream of equality and wakes you up to the reality of Blackness.
I often think of a scene from the 1992 movie Juice. The main character, Q, sits in an interrogation room with two cops. Seeing that Q is nervous, one of the police officers asks him why. Q says “Because there are three n****** in a police station, and if y’all want us to be guilty, we will be guilty.”
In song, Slippin by DMX, the rapper opens the track with “To live is to suffer, to survive, well that’s to find meaning in suffering.” Those words hit home today. To live in a world that is built on injustice reserved for people that look like me, my father, my brother, Marcellus Williams, and his sons is what living while Black is: Understanding there are rules for you and rules for everyone else.
LeRon L. Barton is a writer, author, and speaker.
All views expressed in this article are the author’s own.
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