It was a simple request, or so I thought: ask my mother for help with housing. I was homeless, desperate, and in need of a place to stay. What I didn’t expect was that this plea for help would land me in jail, charged with domestic violence. My mother, who had placed a restraining order on me, was following the a idea she had gotten from the family of Kelly Thomas, a murder victim who tragically lost his life after a brutal encounter with the police. But this wasn’t about Kelly; this was about me, standing on the other side of a thick metal screen, trying to communicate with my mother without even entering her house.
Yes, we had an argument. Yes, I may have raised my voice. But the situation was far from violent. I couldn’t have touched her even if I wanted to—there was a screen, a barrier between us. Yet, my 85-year-old, senile mother called the police, and in a blink, I was taken away, booked, and charged not just with violating a restraining order but with domestic violence. How could that be? I couldn’t possibly have laid a hand on her.
But my mother knew exactly what to say to the police, coached by my greedy relatives and the corrupt, codependency-laden organizations that thrive on control. And the police? They listened, they acted, and they took me in.
The irony of the situation is glaring. Last year alone, I was beaten up five times in group homes. Once, it was by a black woman, and the last time involved being slammed into the cement by a house manager who was not only a gang member but also a parolee. They had the whole incident on camera—this man, jumping around like a pit bull while I lay on the ground. But were any arrests made? No. The police would only comply with a citizen’s arrest. Even when this man missed his court date and was jailed, they left me in the same house, living in danger with someone who had already assaulted me.
So why this imbalance? Why was my mother able to weaponize the system against me so easily, while my own assaults went unpunished? The answer is simple: because my mother is rich, and I am poor. The system protects those who can pay for its protection. I can’t afford a lawyer to take on my case. Instead, I’m processed through a public defender who pushes me toward a plea bargain, urging me to plead guilty, regardless of the truth.
Meanwhile, my mother, with her money, gets the system on her side. We’ve all seen it before—OJ walked, and George Floyd was murdered. But who does the system really protect and serve? The people who can afford to pay for it.
In the end, the police don’t protect the public; they protect the wealthy, the connected, the ones who can afford to buy justice. And those of us who can’t? We’re left to fend for ourselves, hoping that the next encounter with the system doesn’t crush us entirely.
by Dan and Bonkers
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