Originally published in 2011. Updated September 30, 2026.
Update Note: This article was originally written in 2011 following the execution of Troy Davis and the opening of the Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial in Washington, D.C. It has been updated for grammar, clarity, factual accuracy, and historical context while preserving the perspective and argument of the original article.
In 2011, in America, I found myself asking how much this country had really changed for the betterment of our people. The Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial had just opened in Washington, D.C., with its formal dedication originally scheduled for August 28, 2011, before Hurricane Irene forced organizers to postpone the ceremony until October 16. The memorial was historic in itself. Dr. King became the first Black person honored with an individual memorial on the National Mall, and the monument was supposed to serve as a reminder of where Black people had come from within our struggle and where we were still trying to go. In many ways, it represented Sankofa: understanding the past to move forward.
However, even then, I had a difficult time looking at the beautiful picture that the monument was supposed to symbolize without thinking about what was still happening around us. It was hard to celebrate how far America claimed to have come when the outcome of the Troy Davis case had just felt like a gigantic slap in the face.
Officer Mark Allen MacPhail
Troy Davis had been convicted in 1991 of the 1989 murder of Savannah police officer Mark Allen MacPhail and sentenced to death. His case eventually became one of the most controversial death penalty cases in the country because the prosecution’s case relied heavily on eyewitness testimony and, in the years following his conviction, seven of nine key witnesses recanted or changed their testimony. Some said they had been pressured or coerced by police. Davis maintained his innocence until his death, and his case attracted international attention from people who believed there was far too much doubt surrounding his conviction for the state to carry out an irreversible punishment.
On September 21, 2011, I tuned in to the local news around the time Davis was supposed to be executed. His execution had been scheduled for that evening, but it was delayed while the United States Supreme Court considered a final request to intervene. I watched people gathered outside the prison in Jackson, Georgia, waiting to hear whether Davis would live or die. When the execution did not happen at its originally scheduled time, people of different races, religions, and backgrounds hugged one another, prayed together, and thanked God. On my television, it looked like church had broken out outside of the prison. For a moment, it seemed like this brotha was going to be spared again.
The joy was short-lived. Later that night, Troy Davis was executed by lethal injection after his final legal efforts failed. He had spent more than two decades on death row and had faced several execution dates before the state ultimately carried out his sentence on September 21, 2011.
The timing bothered me then, and looking back now, I understand even more clearly why. America was preparing to formally dedicate a monument to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., a man whose life and work were centered around confronting racism, injustice and inequality, while one of the most heavily disputed death penalty cases in recent American history was unfolding only a few states away. I could not separate those two things in my mind. The country was preparing to celebrate the legacy of a Black man who had challenged American injustice while many people were simultaneously questioning whether another Black man was being put to death by a justice system that had gotten it wrong.
I have always taken pride in knowing the strength of Black history. Black is beautiful, and the Black mind is amazing. Our history is filled with brilliance, resistance, creativity, and survival. Black people have endured things in this country that were specifically designed to destroy us, yet generations continued to build, organize, create, and fight for something better. I can acknowledge that progress has been made without pretending that progress means the work is finished.
That was what the execution of Troy Davis represented for me at the time. It was a reality check. It reminded me that America could elect a Black president, build a monument to Dr. King, and celebrate the victories of the Civil Rights Movement while still carrying the weight of systems that had never fully escaped their racial history. Progress does not erase racial inequality, and symbolism does not automatically equal justice.
Race still matters in America. It matters in conversations about policing, prosecution, sentencing, incarceration, wealth, housing, education, and political power. That does not mean every case involving a Black person can automatically be reduced to racism, but it would be equally dishonest to pretend race became irrelevant because segregation ended or because the country became more comfortable publicly honoring people like Dr. King.
That was why I struggled so much with the monument in 2011. I was not questioning whether Dr. King deserved to be honored. Of course he did. I was questioning whether America had become too comfortable celebrating the people who fought injustice while refusing to fully confront the systems they were fighting against.
The Jena Six case, the killing of Sean Bell and the execution of Troy Davis were all very different situations, and they should not be treated as interchangeable. What connected them for me was the larger discomfort they created around race, policing, criminal justice, and the value placed on Black lives. They made it difficult for me to look at a monument celebrating racial progress without also thinking about how much remained unresolved.
More than anything, the contradiction bothered me. America loves symbols of progress. We build monuments, designate holidays, issue commemorative stamps, name streets after civil rights leaders, and quote Dr. King every January. Those things have value, but they can also become a convenient way to celebrate struggles that have been pushed safely into the past. It is much easier to honor a movement after history has decided which parts of it are acceptable than it is to deal with the injustice taking place in front of us.
That is why the idea of Sankofa remains important to me. Looking backward should not be about romanticizing history or pretending that every lesson from the past has already been learned. The point is to understand where we came from so that we can recognize what has changed, what has not changed and what we are in danger of repeating.
I can appreciate what the Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial represents and still question the country surrounding it. I can recognize the progress Black people have made in America while refusing to pretend racism disappeared. I can respect the significance of honoring Dr. King while still asking whether his legacy is being reduced to a monument instead of being reflected in the systems and institutions that shape people’s everyday lives.
That was the question sitting underneath this article when I wrote it in 2011, and it is still the question underneath it now. How meaningful is it for America to celebrate the people who fought injustice if we become more comfortable honoring the fight than continuing it?