The audience was struck by the intensity of Crockett’s remarks as she related Darius’s experience, and the studio was silent as the scene was taken in.
Crockett depicted a system that not only fails but also forgets the people it is supposed to protect with each name she mentioned: Darius, Javon, and Malik. Her narratives were a sincere portrayal of the inequalities that exist in society, not intended for dramatic effect. The air was heavy with empathy and compassion as the crowd listened carefully.
Crockett responded calmly but resolutely to Levitt’s attempt to change the subject by promoting individual accountability and responsibility. Drawing a clear distinction between their experiences, she declared, “You’ve never had to tell your child not to die when a cop pulls them over.” There was no space for denial as her words sliced through the atmosphere like a scalpel.
Crockett’s demand to name those killed by violence—Philando Castile, Sandra Bland, and Tamir Rice—was much than just a list; it was a call to action against erasure. As she reminded the audience of the people behind each statistic, she underlined, “We say their names not to provoke, but because when we don’t, the world forgets.”
Following Crockett’s stirring testimonial, Levitt found it difficult to get back on track. Her efforts to refocus the discussion on statistics and policy came across as more and more desperate. There was a noticeable change in the audience’s attitude; they were now captivated by Crockett’s truth and were not being influenced by prepared talking points.
“No mother should have to wonder if her child’s last words will be ‘I can’t breathe.’” Crockett’s final words struck a deep chord. Her speech’s main point, which was to urgently confront the daily realities of institutional racism and injustice, was summed up in this phrase.
