Professional Documents
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To Protect and Serve Whiteness
To Protect and Serve Whiteness
To Protect and Serve Whiteness
Original Article
To Protect and Serve Whiteness
By Orisanmi Burton
Introduction
Critics of policing often utter the phrase, “To Protect and Serve,” in order to point out the gap
between discourses of ethical policing and practices of punitive policing in black communities. This
refrain, deployed at some moments with irony and at others with supplication, reveals a widespread
comprehension that black communities are not the subjects of police protection, but the objects of police
coercion and that individuals belonging to the category of black — whether by virtue of phenotype,
family history, economic status, or geographic location — are not citizens for whom the public good is
extended.1 As the title of this article makes clear, I suggest this tagline is woefully incomplete and that
a more appropriate representation of the policing function is “To Protect and Serve whiteness.”
The present moment has presented an opening for appraisals and critiques of policing and its
relationship to race. During the summer of 2014, police killings of Eric Garner and Michael
Brown — both unarmed black men — stimulated widespread protests and political organization.
These mobilizations were informed and inflected by the long durée of resistance against antiblack
police violence (Williams 2015). Since the 1990s, the application of “order–maintenance,” a pervasive
policing philosophy that prioritizes low-level “quality of life” violations over violent crimes has been
subjected to sustained criticism for the harm it has inflicted on black communities (Giroux 2003;
Harcourt 2001; Herbert 2001; Howell 2009; Wacquant 2009b). 2 Touted by law enforcement enthusiasts
as a proven method for enhancing public safety (Bratton and Knobler 2009), critics argue that order–
maintenance functions as a “social cleansing strategy” for eliminating undesirable populations (Smith
2001).
This analysis shifts the locus of critique away from the problems of “racially discriminatory” policing
practices and “excessive” police force. Although it is critically important for scholars and activists to
uncover, critique, and interrupt these forms of structural and direct state violence, the conceptual
differentiation between mundane and excessive acts of police abuse betrays a general incapacity to
think about extrajudicial antiblack violence as imbricated in policing itself. As Martinot and Sexton
(2003:172) argue, policing is a “regime of violence that operates in two registers, terror and the
seduction into the fraudulent ethics of social order; a double economy of terror, structured by a ritual
of incessant performance.” A black person is killed by a police officer, security guard, or vigilante every
28 h (MXGM 2013), while past and present order–maintenance regimes inflict an incalculable number
of non-lethal, civil, and human rights abuses against black people every day (CCR 2012). Thus on the
one hand, extrajudicial violence occurs so often that it has become a banal fact of American life. While
on the other hand, the aggregate effect of order–maintenance policing is nothing short of extraordinary.
1
It is instructive that in 1950s, when the Los Angeles Police Department (LAPD) adopted this phrase as its official motto, LAPD Police Chief
William Parker at the same time wielded the organization as a weapon in his racial crusade against “interracial vice,” public housing, and
a drug epidemic that was conveniently localized in black South Central and Latino East Los Angeles (Davis 2006).
2
Order–maintenance has also had devastating impacts on LGBTQ people, homeless people, youth, non-citizens, Muslim communities, and
South Asian communities.
North American Dialogue 18.2, pp. 38–50, ISSN 1556-4819. © 2015 by the American Anthropological Association. All rights reserved. DOI: 10.1111/nad.12032
On a Thursday afternoon in April of 2015, my wife J and I took our 3-year-old son to play in
Community Center Park, an idyllic outdoor space in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. The park features a
vast expanse of open space, play equipment for children, a rose garden, a jogging path, basketball
courts, a stream, hiking trails, and picnic tables situated beneath oak trees. The community center
stands adjacent to the parking lot and features public restrooms, indoor basketball courts, and a
swimming pool.
On this particular day, the park was not heavily attended. I saw a man sipping from a Starbucks cup
as he tracked his child on the jungle gym; a woman thumbing away on her phone while playing catch
with three children; but I soon became transfixed with a teenager who was playing outside by himself.
I watched as this black boy, about 16 years of age, repeatedly ran and then tumbled into summersaults.
He leapt to his feet, thrusting his hands into the air. He climbed and then jumped off boulders. With
each jump he executed an air kick or air punch. Upon landing these moves he confidently proclaimed,
“I am the greatest,” or “I’m the best in the world.” I noticed that others were also looking at the boy.
Their faces revealed a range of expressions — from amused to annoyed, yet the boy was undaunted. I
smiled to myself, thinking about how nice it would feel to be so uninhibited. I looked down to find that
my son was also staring at the boy, but on his face was a look of awe. He was clearly impressed by the
boy’s athleticism.
My family began to leave about 30 min later, but before heading to our car we walked over to meet
the boy. He greeted us politely, introducing himself as TK. Now that we were close, I saw that TK was
wearing a World Wrestling Federation belt, the kind with a giant golden crest in the center. Suddenly,
his behavior made sense. TK was an aspiring wrestler who was using the park to practice his form and
showmanship. He bent over and gently shook my son’s little hand. Smiling, TK took off his wrestling
belt and let my son hold it. Before we left, he told us that he would be the best wrestler in the world one
day.
Moments later, as we made our way to the parking lot, a man emerged from the community center,
dashing toward us. “I’m sorry to bother you,” he said, “but did that man threaten you?”
“What?” I blurted, startled and confused by the question.
“Did he threaten you?” the man asked again. “We received a complaint that he is threatening
people.”
The police did not threaten, or brutalize, or kill TK. But what he experienced was racialized police
violence. His play was perceived as a threat, and for that he was questioned and expelled from a public
space by state agents authorized to use lethal force. The insistent question of whether or not the officers
involved acted out of conscious or unconscious antiblack bias is irrelevant because in their role as police
officers they are structurally placed in opposition to blackness.
In using the terms “blackness” and “whiteness” I am not attempting to reify historically contingent
categories of human difference. Nor am I seeking to reduce the actual range of racial and ethnic
identities, identifications and experiences into an uncomplicated binary. Rather, I seek to enunciate two
of the paradigmatic locations on the socio-historical hierarchy that structure the modern world (Fanon
1967; Reyes 2009; Smith 2012; Wilderson III 2010).3 Drawing on scholarship in Critical Whiteness
3
This article is concerned with how policing shapes relations between whiteness and blackness, but as Smith (2012), Wilderson (2010),
and many others have argued, the category of native also constitutes a paradigmatic racial category.
Thinking through TK’s encounter using Butler’s conceptualization, we see that TK did not need to
intentionally threaten anyone. His very being was a threat. His black body became a “phobogenic
object” (Fanon 1967:151) that disrupted white public space.
Although Butler provides us with an indispensible conceptualization of the black male body as
immanently threatening, black women and gender non-conforming people are also interpellated as
objects of policing. Under New York’s Stop and Frisk program, black women and black men are
stopped by police at comparable rates (Crenshaw et al. 2015). Not only are black women routinely
subjected to physical brutality and killed during police encounters, they also experience forms of
physiological and psychological punishment that are distinct from those typically enacted against
black men. These forms of patriarchal police violence include sexual threats and intimidation,
groping and/or bodily penetration under the guise of “performing a thorough search,” rapes and
sexual assaults, failure to protect black women who are being assaulted, failure to attend to injuries
or illnesses leading to further injury or death, and arresting or otherwise punishing black women
who seek the protection of the police from an abusive intimate partner (Crenshaw et al. 2015; Law
2014; Richie 2012).
Research into the brain’s limbic system has yielded a preponderance of empirical evidence showing
that black bodies are seen to represent physical danger and are thus experienced as threats (Chekroud
et al. 2014; Phelps et al. 2000). Additionally, the legal archive provides extensive testimonial material to
this effect. Take, for example, the Grand Jury testimony of Darren Wilson, the officer with the Ferguson
Police Department (FPD) who shot unarmed black teenager, Michael Brown, to death, sparking an
initial wave of unrest that suddenly rendered the violence of policing and the problem of whiteness
visible. Wilson’s justification for killing Brown evinces what Waytz et al. (2014) call
Furthermore, Wilson’s discursive juxtaposition of Brown’s inviolable black body with his own
defenseless, almost phantasmal whiteness typifies the dialectics of the racial myth: white virtue
requires black threat. As Fine and Ruglis (2009:21) note, “the strategic production of whiteness as
security, innocence, and merit teeters dangerously and precariously upon the exclusion and contain-
ment of black and Brown bodies.” In Wilson’s account, Brown was not unarmed. His body was a lethal
object. It was driving the action, shaping the terms of the encounter, and compelling the inevitability of
its own annihilation. Wilson was merely reacting to the situation:
He had started to lean forward ... like he was going to just tackle me, just go right through me ... I saw the last [bullet]
go into him. And then when it went into him, the demeanor on his face went blank, the aggression was gone, it was
gone, I mean, I knew he stopped, the threat was stopped” (N.A. 2014:229).
During the past 30 years, “order–maintenance policing,” alternatively known as “broken windows
policing,” has imparted the veneer of scientific legitimacy to the antiblack policing function by couch-
ing the social liquidation of undesirable populations in the vernacular of public safety. First concep-
tualized in 1982 by conservative intellectuals James Q. Wilson and George L. Kelling, the order–
maintenance approach asserts that public disorder and violent crime are “inextricably linked, in a kind
of developmental sequence” (Wilson and Kelling 1982:3). Wilson and Kelling argue that policing
undesirable acts such as public urination, public drunkenness, and vagrancy, as well as the undesirable
people who perpetrate these acts, will deter “serious crime.”4 Although both of these foundational
premises have been thoroughly disputed (Harcourt 2001; Rosenfeld 2002; Taylor 2001), order–
maintenance policing has ascended to the level of law enforcement common sense (Wacquant 2009a).
Order–maintenance policing is nothing new. Indeed in their elaboration of the concept, Wilson and
Kelling pine for a return to the style of policing prevalent “during the earliest days of the nation” in
which night watchmen “[maintained] order against the chief threats to order — fire, wild animals, and
disreputable behavior” (Wilson and Kelling 1982:2). But here the duo neglects to unambiguously
reference another chief threat to order: the nation’s enslaved black population. Following Bass (2001),
Hadden (2001), Reichel (1988), and Williams (2007), I argue that in order to understand policing and the
order–maintenance imperative as foundationally antiblack, we must account for the evolution of
modern policing through southern slave patrols. As we will see, policing and the order–maintenance
imperative developed in the slave holding states out of the need to curtail black mobility, punish minor
affronts to white supremacy, and guard against the ever-present threat of black insurrection.
In the early 1700s, planters in South Carolina found themselves outnumbered by a ballooning slave
population and vulnerable to organized slave revolt. Inspired by the Barbados Slave Act of 1661, which
4
I have placed this term in scare quotes because normative criminological discourse employs a very narrow state-sanctioned definition of
what constitutes a crime. For a thorough critique see Christie (2004).
The policing powers of slave patrols developed gradually, through an accretion of laws that
responded to shifting social, political and economic conditions and an unbroken tradition of black
resistance (Genovese 1992). Following the lead of South Carolina, patrols formed in North Carolina,
Georgia, Virginia, and throughout the southern colonies. A law passed in Virginia in 1705 granted
citizens of the commonwealth the right to “kill or destroy” runaway slaves without fear of legal
reprisal (Reichel 1988:57). The Fugitive Slave Law of 1793 empowered slave owners to “seize and
arrest” fugitive slaves from across states lines, expanding the geography of policing powers in North
America.
Initially, free white men, mostly of meager social standing, were conscripted from militias and
legally compelled to participate in the patrol system, but by 1734 slave patrols were populated by a
broad range of southern white society. They also began receiving remuneration for patrolling, an
important step in the long durée of police professionalization (Hadden 2001). The policing of slaves
was a powerful symbolic force in the constitution of racial meanings. It signaled to whites that,
whether or not they profited directly from slavery, the defense of white supremacy and the regula-
tion of black mobility was their civic obligation. Whiteness, and white masculinity in particular,
became tied to the capacity to control and enact violence upon black bodies. The Fugitive Slave Act
of 1850 helped to formalize this relation by penalizing whites that failed to capture and return
escaped slaves.
Following the conclusion of the Civil War, the passage of the 13th amendment abolished de jure
chattel slavery but legally preserved the master/slave relationship under a new logic of racial criminal-
ization (James 2005). But even partial abolition, along with the passage of the 14th amendment, placed
the “intelligibility and collectivity of whiteness” in crisis (Omi and Winant 2014:76). The beleaguered
structure of white supremacy required new forms of antiblack violence in order to sustain itself. As
Hadden (2001) notes, the duty of meting out this violence shifted from slave patrollers to Klansmen and
policemen.
With the passage of the Black Codes during the post-reconstruction period, “crime” became a cipher
for blackness. In what was perhaps a precursor to modern order–maintenance policing, officers were
tasked with enforcing newly emerging laws against mundane acts of vagrancy, unemployment, loi-
tering, and public drunkenness. These laws were enforced almost exclusively against blacks (Davis
1998). Once ensnared in the criminal justice system, black prison–slaves were leased to individuals and
corporations. They were also exploited directly by state governments and once again forced to labor on
Beginning in 2014, widespread political unrest emerged around the issue of antiblack police violence
in the United States. These mobilizations — protests, riots, teach-ins, walk-outs, civil disobedience,
writing, art, and the formation of new organizations — were most immediately sparked by two widely
5
Rodriguez also suggests that a robust genealogy of racialized policing in North America should account for colonial military outfits, Texas
Rangers, and white citizens militias, which targeted colonial subjects and native populations as objects of control. I would also add that
in addition to slave patrolling, the institution of policing was formalized through the regulation European immigrants, particularly the Irish,
in the urban US north. However, as these groups were gradually incorporated into whiteness their oppressive relationship to policing
changed.
The ritual of state-sanctioned antiblack violence remains largely unnamed by the general
public. The unbroken tradition of black resistance against the violence of policing has thus far proven
unable to remedy the problem of whiteness and the twin afflictions of blindness and aphasia it
induces. It is instructive that in this age of “big data,” in which virtually all facets of social life
are collected, measured, and traded as currency, the number of killings by police is not even an
official category of knowledge.6 I ask, what could be more mundane than that for which we cannot
name?
What did generate widespread public indignation was the disproportionate response to the protest-
ers and rioters by law enforcement. On August 16, 2014, Missouri Governor Jay Nixon declared a State
of Emergency in Ferguson. That night the FPD and the National Guard patrolled the streets of Ferguson
with an array of armored vehicles and military arsenals. This indignation, rendered legible through
hours of media debate, orbited around the notion of police excess. Police had “too many weapons,” they
were using “too much force,” and it was costing taxpayers “too much money.” But this critique of
excessive police force naturalizes the antiblack policing function and obfuscates the ways in which the
violence of policing is enacted as standard operating procedure, even when a given encounter does not
immediately produce a brutalized or lifeless black body.
The killings of both Eric Garner and Michael Brown stemmed from order–maintenance approaches.
Garner lived and died in Tompkinsville, a working class neighborhood inhabited primarily by people
of color and recent immigrants. He was allegedly selling unlicensed cigarettes, a misdemeanor offense
under New York State Law. Under the logic of order–maintenance, Garner’s activity on that block was
an invitation for violent crime and thus his removal from the landscape was imperative. Ironically, the
6
The US Department of Justice does not keep complete records of officer-involved shootings.
During one encounter with the NYPD, Peart was accosted while leaving his apartment building.
Officers confiscated his keys, wallet, and cellphone. They then used his key and attempted to enter his
apartment, an (illegal) act that “terrified” his 18-year-old sister, who was in the apartment at the time.
The way in which Peart narrates his lack of autonomy over his body and domicile, his fear of being “out
of place,” and his acute awareness of his own vulnerability to premature death conveys the extent to
which order–maintenance policing re-enacts the practices and imperatives of slave patrolling.
Although couched in colorblind language, order–maintenance criminalizes black association, occludes
black private space, and confines black bodies within a milieu of pervasive state violence. “For a black
man in his 20s like me,” Peart continues, “it’s just a fact of life in New York.”
Although Michael Brown’s killing was the spark that incited the first wave of political unrest in
Ferguson, Missouri, the US Department of Justice “Investigation of the Ferguson Police Department”10
found that residents of that city have been living under a racially exploitative policing regime for years.
In 2013, Ferguson’s municipal court issued over 9000 arrest warrants stemming from cases involving
minor infractions such as parking, traffic, and housing code violations (USDOJ 2015:3). These violations
were not equally distributed throughout Ferguson’s population. The city is 67 percent black, yet black
people account for 90 percent of citations, 85 percent of vehicle stops and 93 percent of arrests (USDOJ
2015:62). The prosaic transgression that inaugurated Brown’s deadly encounter with Darren Wilson
was a “Manner of Walking in Roadway” violation, an act for which 95 percent citations are issued to
black people (USDOJ 2015:4).
Although FDP records do not explicitly identify race as a pretext for code enforcement, the system’s
race–neutral façade is undermined by the explicitly antiblack emails that circulated among FDP
commanders and municipal court staff between 2008 and 2011 (USDOJ 2015). As the Ferguson Report
notes, the FPD sees its black residents “less as constituents to be protected than as potential offenders
7
New York Daily News. 2015. “Original Eric Garner Fatal Arrest Video.” YouTube.com
8
Although the NYPD Patrol Guide has prohibited chokeholds since 1994, they too are routine. A 2014 report revealed that 1128 chokehold
complaints have been reported since 2009 (CCRB 2014).
9
Peart, Nicholas K. 2011. “Why Is the N.Y.P.D. After Me?” The New York Times, 12/17/2011.
10
Hereafter cited as the Ferguson Report
Conclusion
After TK’s expulsion from the park, I walked back across the parking lot and entered the Community
Center. There, I found the staff member who initially approached us about TK. He was standing near
the entrance, gazing out of the window.
“Did you call the police on that kid?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied after hesitating a few moments. “We received a complaint.” I could tell that the
directness of my question startled him and in that moment I became acutely aware of my own
blackness, the fact that I was about 12 inches taller than this white man, and of the very real possibility
that I might become the next threat that required policing. Almost out of habit, I made a conscious effort
to prevent my voice and my body language from communicating the extent of the anger I felt in my gut.
“Did you even bother to talk to him first?” I continued, in a measured tone. “You ran into the parking
lot to speak to my wife and I but you never even spoke to TK. You never even asked him what he was
doing. Why is that?”
There was a brief pause and I could tell he was considering something carefully. In that moment, I
found myself wondering whether or not he knew about Freddie Grey, the young man who, days
earlier, had died in police custody after “making suspicious eye-contact,” then running from police.
“Yes, I see your point,” he said finally. “But it was out of my hands, it’s our policy to ...”
“But this is a Community Center,” I interrupted, losing my cool. “There was no reason to get the police
involved!” I wanted to explain so much to him: like how often black people, and black youth in
particular, are treated as threats; and about that time, when I was TK’s age, that me and a friend
were arrested by a mounted police for “sitting-while-black”; and about how minor police encounters
routinely escalate to brutal or deadly police encounters when they involve black people. But I was
resentful for needing to explain these things and I could feel my anger getting the best of me. I simply
turned and walked back to the car where my family was waiting.
As the three of us drove home I thought about the anger that was still with me. I was angry with the
would-be victim that was threatened by TK, but who didn’t even bother stick around and explain him
or herself. I was angry at community center policy for resorting to policing as the default way to
manage patron discomfort, thereby abnegating any meaningful notion of “community.” I was angry
for my son, because in a few years, when he ceases to be seen as innocent, he will need to become
hyperaware of how others perceive him. But most of all, I was angry with myself. I should have
11
ArchCity Defender, a St. Louis-based non-profit organization found that municipal fines and court fees were the second largest source
of revenue for the City of Ferguson. See: Harvey et al. (2014).
Acknowledgements
I am thankful to Professor Charles Price for his constant support and guidance. I am also indebted
to Professor Alvaro Reyes, whose course “Racialization in the U.S. City” was a major inspiration for this
work. I would also like to thank Vincent Joos, Ben Rubin, Willie J. Wright, and Nikhil Umesh for
commenting on earlier drafts of this work. Finally, I would like to thank Professor Patricia J. Williams,
Professor Ann Stoler, and all of the participants in the “Racial Formations and Justice” Seminar at the
2015 Institute for Critical Social Inquiry. Those lectures, conversations, and debates helped shape my
thinking and approach.
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Orisanmi Burton
University of North Carolina — Chapel Hill
oburton@live.unc.edu