Unlikely Brotherhood

Prologue

A Rude Awakening

I knew the day wouldn’t end well when I heard the two gunshots outside my second-story bedroom window. It was six-thirty on a Sunday morning, a very inconvenient time to jolt me and my family out of bed. I saw him when I got to the window—a white guy walking up my street holding what looked to me like a gun. I figured he had fired the two shots, so I grabbed my phone and called 911 to report we had an emergency situation here with shots fired. For a split second I flashed back to my days as a Portland cop—the adrenaline of facing an active shooter washed over me as I saw a police car screech to a halt across the street and then heard two armed officers shouting at the guy: Put the gun down! Put your hands up!

It was a standoff for several minutes as more police cars arrived and more officers started to mobilize. So I’m thinking they’re confronting this guy, and I’m seriously expecting to witness a gun fight in front of my house. I’m watching this develop—there were about a dozen officers there by now and it looked like they were setting up some kind of perimeter. The officers were still pointing their guns and yelling at him to stop, but the guy just turned and walked away. And disappeared! I couldn’t believe it. I figured the cops had him contained and they were just trying to negotiate with him so they wouldn’t have to shoot his dumb ass. But he was gone! About five or six minutes later, my neighbor from across the street yells down from his second-floor balcony that the guy was back in front of my property. Apparently, the man with the gun had walked around the block and was now hunkering down behind my boat, which was parked on the street with my SUV. Then all hell broke loose. I heard about twenty to twenty-five gunshots and bullets were flying everywhere. I’ve fired enough guns to realize bullets can ricochet just about anywhere, so at that point I grabbed my daughter and we ran downstairs to the basement.

After a while I didn’t hear any more shooting, so I went back upstairs and saw the police converging on my boat. I’m thinking the guy’s down on the street and they’re just being careful to apprehend him, making sure he ain’t playing possum or something. I had no idea the guy wasn’t even there anymore! My other neighbor, who could see everything, told me she saw the shooting and then watched the guy get up from behind my boat and walk out into the line of fire. He walks right in front of the officers—there were probably a dozen of them not more than fifteen feet away—and stops at my big maple tree on the corner. Then he kind of leans up against the tree and just pauses there for a moment. She thought he had been shot because he was kind of limping. Then he just walks away. They don’t shoot him; they don’t even pursue him.

And for the next ten hours we had to stay in the house on lockdown while they searched for him. It was a harrowing experience, not knowing if he’s got somebody hostage, if he’s dead in somebody’s backyard, or what. All day we were confined indoors while about fifty officers, two armored vehicles, K-9 units, and a helicopter looked for the guy. At one point I peeked out my bedroom window and saw a sniper in one of the armored trucks—his rifle pointed directly at me. In my backyard officers with machine guns were searching every corner of my property.

They eventually found a fake pistol by my boat, but they never apprehended the guy who left it there. Turns out the two gunshots I first heard were police firing their shotguns at him, but the only thing they hit was the front of a neighbor’s house. Later that evening, a man who fit the description was picked up at a bus stop about a mile away. But after the authorities questioned him he was released with no charges. Are you kidding me? Back in my day he would have been dead or in custody. And I can tell you with all certainty in today’s racially charged climate, had he been black they would have made sure he was dead. If it had been me or one of my relatives, we would have never made it out of there alive. We’ve heard about cops mistaking phones for a gun and then shooting African-American boys; blacks have been shot and killed and shot and wounded without the cops ever having seen a gun. Here you have a weapon on full display—not once, but two encounters—and then the guy just walks away. The unspoken reality for us is we know the difference. I’m glad the white guy didn’t get shot, but really?

It was the most outrageous thing I’ve seen in a long time. Total police incompetence. I know, because in my twenty-eight-year career serving the community as a member of the Portland Police Bureau, I used to train cops in defensive tactics. So I understand how this incident should have gone down. And I can tell you we weren’t trained to shoot at a target we couldn’t see. And you definitely don’t allow a suspected gunman to break your containment and escape by simply sauntering off.

When we were finally allowed to go outside, I walked over to my boat to assess the damage: I initially counted twenty-two bullet holes. I saw several officers there who I knew and asked one of the sergeants how this could have happened. He shrugged. Nobody had an answer. Except to say call Risk Management; they pay up to $5,000 for damages like this.

Never in a thousand years did I think my competition ski boat would get shot up by the police in front of my house. And a shooting on a Sunday morning in Laurelhurst, one of the city’s most upscale neighborhoods? It was unheard of! And the odd thing is no police report of the officer-involved shooting incident was made public. They’re probably thinking, We can’t write this up cuz no matter how we do it, it makes us look like idiots. But they did initiate an Internal Affairs investigation, no doubt because they believe some serious violations occurred. It’s classic stonewalling. Build as much time and distance as possible between the incident and when the report is released so people lose interest.

But what pisses me off the most is the response from some people at the bureau who thought it was a big joke my boat got shot up: Ha-ha, Anderson’s done got his comeuppance… Now, I would be hard pressed to say there was any malice involved, but there’s always been a percentage of officers who think my black butt shouldn’t be living in a predominantly white neighborhood like this. And once they found out it was my house, then it was all hush-hush—let’s do our secret investigation and get out of here. Never a concern about what’s happened to my family. You shoot up a police officer’s boat in front of his house and the chief should have had his butt down here: Hey, man, you alright? Your wife? Kids? We’re sorry this happened; here’s a check to go get you another boat. And have a great summer! None of that happened. Why? Cuz they’re all covering their asses. They’re all scared to death, not knowing what Larry Anderson is going to do. My friends on the force said the Risk Management guy was afraid to call me. What are you scared to call me for? Am I going to shoot him? Have I ever whooped anybody’s ass ever on the police bureau? Naw, I should have; I should have whooped a whole lot of people’s asses. But it’s that same thing where white folks think they need to protect themselves from these black men—they’re dangerous, they’re a menace. And that’s what is causing the types of behavior we’re seeing playing out across this country. This is why you see black guys getting shot and killed and white guys walking away.

Of course, it was common knowledge I had been very vocal about what was wrong with the police bureau while I was there and when I left. One of the issues I exposed was the reality of racial profiling, and a lot of white officers were upset about that. And then I was very critical of the Special Emergency Response Team because in training they would use pictures of young black men as their shooting targets and make comments they thought were funny—just like shooting up my boat. It’s the same sentiment—they don’t see the harm they do, the impact they have, they just see it as a big joke. And, hey, we’re just doing our job, and what’s your problem? Well, my problem is you didn’t do your job, and you created a hostile dangerous environment in front of my family. You damaged my boat unnecessarily and now you’re gone, and I’m shuffled off to Risk Management. Yeah, I’ve been critical about certain wrongs I’ve seen in the Portland Police Bureau. So it wasn’t that far-fetched for me to connect the dots in the response I’ve gotten from them, basically: Well, Larry, you know, who cares if your boat got shot up? You’re lucky we didn’t shoot you!

Well, I’ll tell you who cares about that boat. That boat was a personal ministry of mine reaching out to young African-American boys. Been using it for years as a means to create fellowship, take them out on the water, keep them off the streets. I bought the boat, restored it, and a lot of the guys worked with me on fixing it up just right with a tower package for skiing. It was the vehicle I used to spend time with young men who maybe didn’t have dads around or a boat to ride in. And it’s not just about the damage to the boat, it’s about lost time and lost momentum we had with Boys2Men, a mentoring program for young men without fathers. I had promised to take those kids skiing. It’s ironic; we had the boat ready for the season. We were supposed to get it on the water that week. Another one of those promises that didn’t happen. How do you measure that? The kids were devastated. And the boat is a total loss.

A number of people have suggested I should talk to the mayor, who was also serving as Police Commissioner at the time. Because he’s been listening; he’s not in denial like other City of Portland mayors have been before. He’s made statements already that have acknowledged the city’s racist past. Like in his search for a new police chief, the mayor wrote in the job announcement:

The state of Oregon and its largest city, Portland, share a history of legally sanctioned systemic racism with legally enforced exclusionary practices. Given this history, the successful candidate must demonstrate the capacity and commitment to expand on existing strategies to involve relationships with and service of business to Portland’s community of color, ensuring that equity is a bedrock of policing in Portland.

Although that posting raised the ire of the police union, who complained the mayor was calling Portland police officers racist, I received his statement as a step in the right direction. Finally, there was a government official who in his official capacity was giving light and weight and consideration to Portland’s systemic racist track record.

What happened to me in the aftermath of my property getting destroyed by the cops is not just an unfortunate isolated incident. This is the result of a lingering atmosphere of oppression and white supremacy that black people have had to deal with for years. There’s an undertone that makes me as a black man always have to ask the additional question of, Did this happen to me because of the color of my skin? Unlike white people, who don’t have to ask that question. Their typical response? Gee, that was unfortunate.

The difference between us is this is reality for me every day; it’s just an experiment for white people. Every day I have to live with the possibility of what happened in front of my house. I have to deal with these ignorant white folks who think they should live in Laurelhurst and I shouldn’t. No matter how hard I worked and what God has given me, I can’t tell them nothing. So psychologically, yeah, I can believe my boat was targeted because in white boys’ psyche they don’t want me to have stuff like that.

Now, I can have a fishing boat; I don’t know how many times white people have asked, Oh, you going to do some fishing? Does this look like a fishing boat to you?! Here’s the perception if I look through their lens: Black guys aren’t supposed to have a boat like that cuz professional water skiing is exclusively a white sport. What black person got time to be doing that? Your butt needs to be working, get a job, and take care of your community. Be a good representation and credit to your race. You ain’t got no time for leisure and paying the kind of money it takes to have a ski boat. At least when you’re out there you need to be doing something productive—like catching fish.

I get no shortage of awkward stares when I’m backing my boat into the water. When I take my friend, Daniel, who is white, people come up to him on the dock and ask about his boat. When he points at me and tells them I’m the owner, they just walk away with this perplexed look on their face. This stuff goes on all the time. It’s just another example of how the culture affects how we see what we’re seeing.

I know what I’m talking about because for the past twenty-five years I’ve been involved in a so-called racial reconciliation movement here in Portland. Thousands of black, white, and brown men have crossed the threshold of our Friday group meetings in our efforts to build friendships across the chasms that have divided us for eons. And this in a city recognized as one of the most racist, most segregated, and least churched in the nation.

So, after more than 1,200 encounters between my white brothers and my black brothers, what great wisdom can I impart about racial reconciliation? It’s a lie. False advertising. People are trying to create a truth that doesn’t exist. Because how can you achieve reconciliation if there’s never been conciliation in the beginning? There can only be reconciliation to God, which then eliminates the black/white factor. Because the Bible says there’s only one human race. Yes, we bleed the same red blood, but that’s not how we’ve become defined. We’re defined by someone’s definition of the color and texture of our skin. And then they use that for the benefit of one to the detriment of the other. Black/white is never going to be reconciled because that designation has its origin in hatred, prejudice, and injustice. As long as I see myself as a black man and you see yourself as a white man, by the very nature of our definition we’re meant to oppose each other. And God doesn’t recognize no black man and no white man. He don’t recognize those designations, so therefore if we come to him with that designation we’re already in denial of his truth, which means we’re unreconciled to him. So when we continue to propagate that in the name of Christian reconciliation, we are in denial of the actual truth of God. And we’re placating to what our cultural society has defined our roles to be. Ask a white man what his role in his culture is. How is he viewed? The fact white people haven’t thought about that is the definition. I have to think about it all the time because it’s constantly before me.

People have defined the message of our Friday movement as racial reconciliation, but it never has been; it’s never declared itself as that. What we’ve discovered is that as long as we’ve got black men and white men talking about race, there will never be reconciliation. We’ve got to get men of God talking about first needing to reconcile to our Creator; then you go about figuring out how to love your neighbor.

The problem in our nation today is we’re operating in our false identities as white and black people, which has facilitated racism as a major stronghold. Yet we have a country of white folks who don’t want to even have the discussion and black folks who get stuck in white folks’ definition of us. As a result, there’s no real discussion taking place. But we need to wake up! The strongholds of race and racism that separate us into some made-up categories of humanity have no biblical foundation. And once you buy into a lie, God has nothing to do with that. All that has to be eradicated. And that’s what makes our Friday movement so radical—on our own we can’t defeat the evil of racism; we need God’s power to stop that mess.

I had no intention of being a minister to white people. In fact, the term preacher to me is repulsive. But every time I’m invited to address hundreds of white people at the National Prayer Breakfast in Washington, DC, or as the keynote speaker at the Portland Business Luncheon’s Christmas event, I hear the following after speaking God’s truth to the white culture: You’re a black guy, how dare you talk to us like that! Well, I ask back, did you even hear what I had to say? Did you hear the words? Yeah, but you can’t know that!

Oh man, every day this goes on. And the minute I retreat, God sends them right to my front door at six-thirty on a Sunday morning. He says, Hey, now they outside your house; what you got to say about that? When I don’t say anything, what happens? People in the bureau and the community call me and say we heard what happened. What you got to say about that? When I don’t say anything to the media about the big screw-up, the mayor’s chief of staff calls me and tells me the mayor wants to meet with me. What you got to say about that?

Now, there’s lots of people in Portland breaking their necks trying to get in front of the mayor. They’ll try anything to get face time with him. I avoid that and the mayor calls me. Wants to come to my house and apologize to me and my family. We’ll see about that…

That’s just how God is. That’s been my whole life. I try to avoid white people and he brings them right to my house.

Part One

Growing Up

Chapter One

Adopted

It was Old Man Vance who crudely introduced me to the concept of racism. I was seven. The Vances lived up the street and I was always playing with their son, Doug. He was one of my best friends. I remember this one time I was over at his house and we were playing, having fun, just being kids. For some reason we went into the house and this old guy—turns out it was Doug’s grandfather—yells, Hey, what’s that nigger doing in the house?

It was the first time I had ever heard that word and I had no idea what it meant. I guess we were kind of in shock because me and Doug just stopped in the living room when he started yelling at us. Then his grandfather turned toward Doug and demanded, Is that your nigger friend? What’s that nigger doing in this house? I mean, he just kept on. At first I was oblivious. But then I realized he wasn’t calling Doug