Why Are You Asking That Question?

Where were his parents?

Why was he out that late?

Why did he run?

Why did he have a pellet gun?

We have heard some version of these questions since the night Nyah Mway was killed. It takes a while getting used to how to answer them. Partly because they’re offensive. Partly because arguing over each one seemed to accept a premise never agreed with.

But maybe it’s wrong not to address them.

Not because they deserve answers.

Because they deserve another question:

Why are you asking?

That isn’t rhetorical. It’s meant sincerely.

What information are you hoping the answer will give you?

When a woman is sexually assaulted and someone asks what she was wearing, we understand why the question is disturbing. Her clothing might be a fact about that evening. But usually that isn’t why someone asks. The question is searching her behavior for an explanation of somebody else’s violence.

If your car is stolen and someone’s first response is, “Were the keys in it?” you probably understand the implication. Maybe leaving the keys inside was careless. Maybe it made the theft easier. It still doesn’t transform the person whose car was stolen into the person responsible for stealing it.

That distinction seems obvious everywhere except when we talk about people killed by police.

Suddenly, we become forensic investigators of the dead.

Why were you there?

Why did you run?

Why didn’t you listen?

Why were you afraid?

Why did you have that?

Why didn’t you react differently?

And eventually one wonders what answer people are looking for.

Suppose I could answer every question.

Suppose I could explain exactly where Nyah’s parents were. Suppose I could explain why a thirteen-year-old boy was outside. Suppose I could tell you exactly what was going through his mind when he ran. Suppose I could explain why he had a pellet gun.

Then what?

What answer would make you comfortable with a thirteen-year-old being killed with impunity?

Because if there is no answer that would do that, perhaps these aren’t the questions we should be asking.

And if there is an answer that would do that, then perhaps we need to have a much more uncomfortable conversation about what we believe a child must do to remain deserving of our concern.

Nyah did not have to be a perfect thirteen-year-old for his life to matter.

He was allowed to make bad decisions. He was allowed to be somewhere he had rights to be. He was allowed to possess something he could have possessed. He was allowed to panic. He was allowed to run.

None of those things answers the question of whether the adults entrusted with extraordinary state power acted appropriately.

In fact, the imbalance of responsibility should run in exactly the opposite direction.

We expect less judgment from children because they are children. We demand more judgment from trained professionals because they are trained professionals. Authority is supposed to increase responsibility, not decrease it.

Yet after Nyah’s death, that equation was frequently reversed. The thirteen-year-old’s decisions were scrutinized as though he were the trained professional in the encounter, while the decisions of adults carrying badges and real firearms were treated by some as inevitable responses to circumstances the child created.

That is why “Why did he run?” is so bothersome.

He’s thirteen.

Maybe he was scared.

Maybe he made a poor decision.

Maybe there isn’t a satisfying answer.

But why are we demanding that a frightened child account for every second of his behavior before we allow ourselves to scrutinize the behavior of trained adults?

And now there is another reason to think carefully about which questions we ask.

Institutions communicate their values not only through statements and policies, but through whom they honor, whom they promote, and whom they entrust to lead others.

So I am less interested today in asking where a thirteen-year-old’s parents were.

I want to know where the adults were.

Where was the training?

Where was the restraint?

Where was the judgment?

Where was the responsibility that is supposed to accompany the enormous power we give law enforcement?

And after everything that happened, what did the institution learn?

Those are questions worth asking.

So the next time someone asks, “Why did he run?” don’t rush to answer.

Ask them something first.

Why do you need to know?

Because sometimes a question is an attempt to understand what happened.

And sometimes a question is an attempt to decide how much sympathy the dead deserve.

We should be honest enough to know the difference.