Last March marked 11 years since Tony Robinson was taken from this world. March 6, 2015, was not an ordinary winter day. It was unusually warm. Madison felt alive with spring even though we were still in the darkness of the cold season.
At 6:25 pm that night, Tony Terrell Robinson, Jr., was shot and killed by an officer responding to a call. I learned of his death a few hours later from my sister. Tony’s death was not another unarmed Black teenager being killed by police. My family knows that family. It was a shock and we did not recover from it easily.
Nationally, in 2015 alone, police killed 36 unarmed Black men and two unarmed Black women. The country was alive with pain, especially Black folks. We knew that no, our lives did not matter the same as white people. We knew we were not safe. Not safe crossing the street or driving. Or, in Robinson’s case, being a teen who was on a bad trip and whose friends called for help.
Robinson’s death told the story of a Madison that people did not recognize as their own. It reminded us that Madison was not immune from what so much of what the country was already grappling with: this country did not care about our lives, the lives of Black individuals.
We were expendable — if only we did not just fall in line. And sometimes, even when we did. Police killings were happening more frequently, and Madison had become part of those statistics.
March 7, early in the morning, I picked up my grandma. We went to a church and sat with others in sadness, dismay and anger at the loss of Robinson. Soon after, we joined a large protest demanding justice.
I would go on to march for Tony for the next year. This was personal to me. Because I was Black, because I knew the family and because at 19, he should still be alive.
A group of us were gathered at a friend’s house as we learned that no charges would be filed in the shooting. We watched with shock as the DA told the city that the “tragic and unfortunate death was the result of a lawful use of deadly police force.”
I left that day full of rage and deep sadness.
Waking up March 7, 2015, Madison felt cold. Distant. Not like home, the only home I have ever known. Madison could no longer claim to be the land of opportunity for everyone that it so often boasts.
If we learned anything from his death, it has been to listen to communities affected by racism. It has been to not paint Madison with rose-colored glasses. It has been to love each other, listen to each other, and fight for each other.