"A lot of people in America hate you for what you did Grandpa." I knew that wasn't the truth, but those that did know of his actions, raged.
"I know." His head hung low.
"You shot a sleeping man through a wall."
He squared up. "That man was armed on the other side of that wall."
"And asleep! And weren't you and how many cops armed as well?"
He looked at his daughter, my mother. "No one knows for sure if he was asleep -"
"Or what?! Just laying in bed in his underwear while cops raided his house?!"
I never should've watched the documentary on the Panthers. I never should've asked my Grandpa about his time on the force [sic]. Now I was one of the offspring of one of the murderers that only Howard Zinn ever cares to write about when it comes to the history of the USA. I'm a recent proponent of ignorance especially when it comes to family.
He broke our silence with a renewed vigor. "Who knows to what end his violent message could have reached?"
"Don't Grandpa, your dead fucking wrong: the violent message was the assassination of a sleeping man and believe me, Grandpa, those that struggle for justice in America heard your message perfectly."
His vigor was short lived and his demeanor shriveled. "We were just following orders - "
"Just fucking don't! Don't ever fucking say that again. Don't."
"Don't talk to you Grandpa that way!" My mom had had enough.
"Don't mom." The time for decency has vacated this family; this is just the beginning of reconciliation.
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