My Thoughts On the Execution of Troy Davis

I’ve had a lot of people ask me for my opinion on the Troy Davis execution because of my personal experience with this topic, so here we are.


In March of 1990 in Ringgold, Georgia, Shani’s father called her mother on the phone, asked her to come to the house (they were divorced) and proceeded to murder her in cold blood-The Definition of Murder 1. He was granted bail for the entire year leading up to the trial where he didn’t even receive a life sentence, although he died in prison 19 years later.

Yes, he received bail! Shani’s grandfather slept with a shotgun beside his bed until he was jailed. He was a white male in the deep South. This was still Ringgold, GA in 1990, around the time where Troy Davis was found guilty and sentenced to death.

In June 0f 2009, Shani was murdered by her son Zeke-an 18 year old, white, freckle faced young man. The state will not even approach the death penalty as they said with no priors and the “nature of the crime,” (it was his mother) they feel that they wouldn’t get it and that the court would show mercy because of his age, although this is a clear cut case of Murder 1 as well.

To be clear, I am against the death penalty-I’ve always thought that a life behind bars would be worse than death and that it was not our place to determine when someone else should die, regardless of the crime, once they were in custody.

We murdered Troy Davis. Whether he committed the crime or not, there is so much doubt and secrecy surrounding the case, at the very least he should have had his sentence commuted to life in prison. We are blood thirsty. We are racist. We are ignorant. We would rather see someone pay for the crime than seek the truth. This is our collective consciousness and we need to take a long, hard look in the mirror as people. There is no healing to be had here. All we did was kill another person with hate and anger in our own hearts, and we’re not even sure that he did it.

This is who we are Georgia, and Wednesday night left me deeply saddened to be a resident of this state. It's time to change.

There you go.

Peace.

Moving Forward, Sitting Still

I’ve been meaning to write this for months. Every one of the God-knows-how-many-times I sat down to write, I got about this far.


Right here.

Then I would rest my chin in my hand, index finger tapping my temple as I stared at this completely blank Word Document aside from the introduction. This is a far cry from where I was last year when I could rip off pages of deep, soul searing emotion at the rate that Nickelback puts out song after song of soulless, sugar coated and prepackaged, pop radio ready excuses for music to be devoured by the sleeping masses. Sorry, not a Nickelback fan. But yeah, I could write forever.

So much has happened since my last blog. The abbreviated version would be to say that I moved back to Atlanta, started a new job and stayed with friends on a day bed in their home office. I met a girl and moved into her 400 sq ft studio where we lived for 3 months while completely remodeling the loft where we currently reside. I also completed my 200 hr yoga teacher training. I’ve been through year two of all of the anniversaries, birthdays, etc.

A year ago, I was 37 years old, widowed, living in my parents’ basement, trying to “recover” from all of the effects of losing my wife to a hailstorm of bullets, delivered at the hands of my 18 year old stepson. There was no news and no end in sight for the legal proceedings surrounding Zeke’s case. I was still just trying to survive.

Today I am 38, and living with an incredible woman in a beautiful loft in the heart of midtown Atlanta. I’m teaching yoga and working with young athletes. I walk to Piedmont Park. We’re surrounded by restaurants, theatres and music venues. The airport is a train ride away. Everything is so accessible, I’ve gone weeks where I put maybe 50 miles on my car.

I’m still waiting on a trial.

Make no mistake; many days it’s still a chore getting out of bed. The realization that I am where I am as a result of what happened to Shani hits me with no less of an impact than it ever has. Often times, it’s so surreal that I do feel like I’m living in two different worlds. I drive to work and notice things that sometimes make me feel like I’ve traveled back in time and nothing ever happened. I see the football field where we sat with his dad and watched him play. The theater. The shops. The restaurants. The memories are pretty thick and still fresh. Reality then slaps me in the face and I see June 2, 2009 all over again. Sleep is still a mystery for me. The effects of PTSD are still very present, as is the grief and fear of the media and what will happen come trial time. I’d be lying if I said that anger didn’t swoop in some days and still send me reeling. I’ve just had enough time under my belt and support from friends and family that I know how to deal with everything better, whatever that means in the moment. Every day I try to address what's right in front of me. I do my best to stay present and continue to let the universe provide the obvious next step, rather than running blindly, fueled by ego and fear.

When Barb, my girlfriend, and I first moved in together, I would pace all night. I had so much subconscious stuff going on that I was convinced I was losing my mind. Not only that, I felt like I would never have a healthy relationship. How could anyone tolerate what I was bringing to the table? I just knew that I was going to push her away.

I looked at Barb not too long ago and said, “You know, from the outside looking in, people that don’t know us judge us…and you,” as if I had to tell her that.

“They think that either I’m still so wounded that I can’t possibly be making completely rational choices, or that there’s gotta be something wrong with you. You’re naïve to the situation, or I want to forget what happened. They certainly won’t think it could last or that it’s as real as it is. Fact is, if people really knew us, most would give anything to have what we do.”

“But honestly, Barb, even I don’t know how you do it,” I said.

I thought about why I hadn’t written and realized it was all because deep down I felt the need to explain myself. I needed to prove to everyone that this was real. That I could love and grieve and feel all of the emotion from losing Shani, allow it to process without simply grabbing onto someone else to “save me” so to speak. That I wasn’t doing what so many widows and widowers do in meeting someone new, latching onto the relationship in a subconscious effort to replace what was lost, only to find out that they had done just that some time later. I knew I wasn’t there, but I felt like I needed to prove it for some reason. Guilt, I guess.

People tell me all the time that they don’t know if they could do what she, Barbara, does. As I told her, neither do I.

I could go into how loving she is. I could tell you about the incredible compassion she has shown me and her unflappable strength during my darkest times. I could go into her career as a junior high counselor and the love she has for these inner city kids. I could tell you how she has dealt with the uncomfortable moments meeting friends who find it difficult to see me with another woman, and how quickly she won them, and my family, over. I could tell you all about how she is able to simply “hold space,” when I need to cry, without taking it on as if she needs to solve my problems. She gets it. These things are for me to deal with. But she is willing to hold my hand and walk through the fire with me. She loves me for who I have become-for what I have done with my situation and how I look at life. I never thought I would find someone so genuine ever, let alone 2 years removed from Shani’s death.

Barb once told me, “The more I hear how much you loved her, the more I fall in love with you.”

It takes an amazing woman to see the situation for what it truly is without allowing her ego to get in the way-to understand that occasionally there’s a third person in the room and not only accept her, but make it a point to honor her.

I’m blessed beyond words to have Barb in my life now. She was the impetus for completing my yoga teacher training. She encourages me to follow my heart and supports me in everything I do. I could write for hours and hours about what it means to me to have met her. I have tons of stories about the “signs” continuing and how we both feel that we’ve received the blessings of the cosmos. I was recently invited to a yoga conference at Pura Vida, the place where we held Shani’s memorial and a willow tree is planted on her honor, deep in the mountains of Georgia, on what would have been our 10th wedding anniversary. Happens all the time…I think I’m right where I’m supposed to be.

What I’ve come to realize in all of this, however, is that I don’t need to explain this to anyone. I took a break from writing at a time where I just wanted to be left alone. As I stepped back out into the land of the living, I wanted to be able to stumble without feeling the need to share it with everyone, and I most certainly have stumbled. I wanted my private life to be private, and now that I’ve settled in and have some new direction, I’m feeling compelled and inspired to write again.

I’m not sure what’s going to happen with this, the Blackbird blog. As I launch my yoga business over the next couple of months, I will be starting a new blog that will focus more on yoga, fitness and helping others heal and move forward from life’s crazy curveballs, so be on the lookout for the Warrior Spirit blog very soon. I’ve thought about using this space come trial time as a way to communicate what I need to say in a public forum. Maybe I’ll pop in from time to time when I have things that don’t fit the Warrior Spirit blog. And then again, who knows? Maybe I won’t.

Either way, thanks for reading….again.

Mike

The Turtle Story -- Shani's Birthday, 2009

I know I said I was putting the blog on hold for now, but an experience I had this past weekend, led me to share this with you...


In two weeks, I will be heading to the mountains of North Carolina for a spiritual retreat with an African Shaman where we will be engaging in Indigineous African Grief Rituals for Men. This morning I went to the registration page and found a picture of a turtle, sketched in an African Tribal style. I knew immediately that I am supposed to be there. I don’t know what will happen, but this is destined to be a spiritual experience for me. Turtles became a “totem” for me very early on after Shani’s death. There have been a number of experiences involving turtles, and I even had a tattoo of one done on my right forearm in what I would call a Pacific Islander sort of style.

The appearances of these turtles have typically grounded me at times when I needed it the most. And now, as you will see later on in the story, I can certainly connect with the direction I have been given to “go within my most primal essence.”

I have been waiting to share the turtle story, and after this morning feel more compelled now than ever to do so. Sean is working from these stories to help piece the book together in a different fashion, but here is an excerpt summary from the book proposal we wrote.

This should give you a good idea as to why I love turtles.  Hope you enjoy….

Mike

My Last Blog...For Now

“When people are faced with an evil that’s incomprehensible, they will respond and turn it into something positive.”  -Dr William Petit, Jr.

I came upon a People Magazine this morning and found an article that I could certainly relate to. During a home invasion in 2007, Dr. Petit’s wife and two daughters were murdered and he was brutally beaten and left for dead. Somehow he was able to escape and survive. Further into the article, I learned of the non-profit that he has set up in honor of his family and the $1.4 million that it has generated to this point. The story also told of his struggles to this day in trying to survive his horrible tragedy, including moving in with his parents and abandoning his medical practice. When I read the quote above, I reflected on my own experience. For months and months following Shani’s death, I held onto the belief that in doing something positive, in writing a book, or setting up some type of non-profit championing non-violence, I would honor Shani, and I began to put all of that in motion. Still reeling from the effects of intense grief and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, I began bulldozing ahead, following the path of the hero.

A Yoga Practice For Living

When I think back to Shani’s murder 16 months ago, far enough removed from it to now see it from the perspective of an observer, I wonder how in the hell it is that I’m here. How did I not kill myself? How did I not drink myself into oblivion and completely self-destruct? How have I not completely lost my mind?

I read. I run. I ride. I write. I lift weights. I swim. I meditate and pray. I surround myself with loved ones and do my best to keep toxic energy out of my life. I see a therapist. I talk to Shani. I ask her for guidance. I eat healthy as much as possible. I cry. I laugh. I love. I live.

I also practice yoga.

Living

What to write…what to write. I’ve been in a great space for about a week now. I don’t have any stories to share off the top of my head, and frankly I’ve been too focused on my current day and potential of the future to spend much time dwelling on the past.

I’ve been living.

Freedom

I feel an amazing sense of freedom today. To start, it’s an absolutely beautiful day outside. The colors are just starting to turn, and it’s 80 degrees without a cloud in the sky. I knocked out a long run and was cheered on by a few homeless guys in the park downtown as I looped around a couple of times. That was cool. They raised their arms and smiled. I clapped my hands and yelled, “Just keep going, brothers! Keep going!” It was exhilarating.