Breonna Taylor was asleep in her home, alongside her boyfriend Kenneth Walker, as the clock crept past midnight. Soon after, plainclothes officers of the Louisville Metro Police Department (LMPD) forced entry into her apartment via a no-knock warrant. Walker and Taylor called out, asking who was at the door. They feared it was a break-in. Walker fired off one shot from his licensed firearm in hopes of deterring the assumed intruders. He struck an officer in the thigh. The LMPD officers returned 32 shots. Multiple bullets struck Taylor, a 26-year-old emergency medical technician and aspiring nurse. She was killed on March 13, 2020, at approximately 12:40 a.m. at the hands of those expected to protect.
Taylor's death was largely disconnected from the broader narrative of police brutality and the Black Lives Matter movement -- like many Black and trans women who the police have killed -- until June, around what would have been her birthday. She became part of the conversation after Minneapolis police officers killed George Floyd in late May. Taylor's killing became part of the collective discussion of the BLM movement and other social justice initiatives. We started saying her name.
By July, the WNBA dedicated its season to Taylor and the Say Her Name movement, which works to uplift stories of Black women who have been killed by police and who have experienced gender-specific forms of police brutality. Athletes and other notable activists were chanting "Breonna Taylor" at protests and other public demonstrations. Naomi Osaka wore a face mask with "Breonna Taylor" etched across the front of it at the US Open in September. Taylor's face was printed on t-shirts, her name painted onto basketball courts and on sneakers as they squeaked across the hardwood. Taylor became a unifier for many, a battle cry and a reminder to remember Black women. Yet, the officers who killed her were never charged in connection with her death.
Black women have led the fight for recognition, empathy and justice in Taylor's honor. In our letters series, Black women athletes -- from an individual sport, a team and coaching perspective -- reflect on how Taylor's death impacted them and ignited their quest for change, how they want to honor her life in sport and beyond.
These as-told-to conversations have been edited and condensed for clarity.
Fencer and Olympic medalist Ibtihaj Muhammad on processing Breonna Taylor's death and why change is the job of many:
It felt like I'd lost someone close to me.
I was made aware of Breonna Taylor's death through social media, like a lot of us. I'm at a point in my life where I don't like to see or consume Black death in that way. I can't watch it. I don't want to hear it. It's triggering. Breonna is all of us. We all see ourselves. That could have easily been me.
We've also become desensitized to death in many ways, especially when it comes to Black deaths. We've normalized police brutality and murder.
My sister suddenly passed in 2019. It hasn't even been two years. When it comes to death, it triggers a very real emotion of grief for me. But if there is a silver lining in what has transpired over the past year -- when we think about Ahmaud Arbery, George Floyd and Breonna Taylor's death -- it's that it showed the real power of the racial and social justice movements.
I am a Black Muslim woman; my best interest has never interested the masses. This is a long fight for people like us. But last summer, sports became this powerful umbrella, this unifier of change, forcing a shift in public opinion. When we watched the WNBA be at the forefront of social justice, we watched them shift public perceptions. Now we have everyone's attention -- this is the work the ancestors prepared us for.
As Black people, there was a time when we were banned from joining sporting clubs, competing in the same leagues, or even swimming in the same pools. Last year was no different. We're using that same persistence and perseverance to push for equity and speak out on social issues.
However, this is not a time to only be performative or only celebrate our victories. But rather to fight alongside us. There is so much power in the collective, and we need more people to believe in that message.
As athletes, we have to commit to using our platform for change. We have to commit to being agents of change, not just in support but also in our own lives and speaking to the people we can reach through our social platforms. We must unite to push justice for Breonna Taylor, Sandra Bland, Ahmaud Arbery, George Floyd -- and the list goes on. If we all do it, we give people, especially people who stand in positions to commit these types of crimes, pause thinking twice about how they treat Black people.
Being an ally is not an exclusive club. You don't need permission from Black folks. I don't even think anyone should be putting that pressure on their Black friends, family, or whoever to join the movement. This is about committing to doing the work. And a major part of that starts with educating yourself. Ask yourself, what has happened in the past that has led us to these moments? What structural forms of racism exist that have led us to this moment? And what can you do to be a part of the solution? After you educate yourself as an ally, inform your followers and family. A lot of this starts not just in your heart but also in your home.
This isn't just something you commit to for the day or the week or during your season. It has to be something that you do day in and day out. If you feel like that is taxing, or if that seems like a lot, I would implore you to imagine having a knee on your neck for even a minute. That's more taxing. Or having to show up in a world that dehumanizes you regularly and devalues you because you are Black -- that's taxing.
We're not asking anyone to show up perfectly. We're asking that you show up. It's that easy.
WNBA player Natasha Cloud spoke on how Breonna Taylor's death impacted her on the debut episode of Around the Rim Presents "I'm Speaking" with LaChina Robinson. The following is excerpted from the conversation:
I still feel all the same emotions, the same feelings, the same trauma I felt when I learned [police officers killed Breonna Taylor]. Justice still hasn't been brought to Taylor or her family. And that's what I consistently think of. This is why we're continuing to fight this fight -- so that no other family has to live through what her family had to live through. But man, it was really tough as a Black woman in America. This last summer was beyond tough.
It affected me greatly in my everyday life and it was hard. It was heavy. It still is very heavy. Obviously, with my career, it's what led me to sit out [of the 2020 WNBA season]: George Floyd, Breonna Taylor and Ahmaud Arbery. You say their names.
These are the names that made me feel in my heart of hearts that I needed to be better for my community, that I needed to be a voice for the voiceless. And at this moment in our country, the climate's never been like this. And so that was extra stress on me. This is bigger than the game of basketball. I need to use my God-given platform to be better and be a voice for my community.
Something that isn't talked about in Black culture is mental health and how this trauma that goes on in our country affects us. And having basketball taken away from me and obviously I opted out voluntarily, but also, we were in a pandemic. We were confined to our homes. I tell people, me sitting out, I've never been more exhausted in my life because it not only takes an emotional toll on you, but it's also a toll to have to explain to people why you're fighting this fight. It's a toll to explain Black trauma to unopen ears. And I was working from 9 to 5 every night. And there just became a point where even my wife [professional softball player Aleshia Ocasio-Cloud] was like, you got to turn your phone off.
For me, [what gave me peace] was honestly just sitting with our dog, sitting with my wife, spending time with my parents, just detaching from the world at its craziest points. But it was important to my mental health and being able to do what I wanted to do within the community and then this fight for social reform.
This summer, especially with what we were able to do from the WNBA, whether it was the Wubble or the players that sat out as a collective, it shows just how powerful our voices are in our platform. It's no secret with Stacey [Abrams, former Georgia representative] and the W following right behind, we changed the trajectory of our country. And in a lot of ways, Black women saved this country, whether it was just the lead-up to the election or the actual election itself, and the statistics of who voted for who. Black women saved this country, and the work that was put in this summer by Stacey and by the W, I'm just so extremely proud to be one of 144 [players in the WNBA] because we truly had an impact.
The Say Her Name movement also informed our allies. To me, the biggest part of being an ally is asking questions because as an ally, you don't know what it means to be Black in America. You can't write our stories. You can't navigate through this space without allowing us to be in the driver's seat. That's the main thing.
On a smaller scale, in my family, in the spaces that are around me, having those hard dialogues with people that need to be had, even if it's uncomfortable -- we need to have these hard dialogues and conversations. That's been the hardest thing as a Black woman, I feel that I shouldn't have to teach and educate and relive my trauma to bring allyship. But I also understand that there's a lot of platforms in this country that have done a disservice in teaching America's true history and how we have gotten and are still in this point in 2021. For me, I have to take my pride down a little bit to be that educator in a lot of senses. But have those hard dialogues, even if you don't want to, even if you feel uncomfortable as an ally.
Shut your ass up and just listen, because I got a lot to tell you.
ESPN analyst and club volleyball coach Jennifer Hoffman on living in Louisville, Kentucky, when Breonna Taylor died and how she intends to create change:
In Louisville, it felt like we were living in a pressure cooker.
We were in a presidential cycle. This is Mitch McConnell's state. There was attorney general Daniel Cameron. Senator Rand Paul. The boyfriend, Kenneth Walker. The Louisville Metro PD. The Courts. It didn't seem to be about Breonna Taylor. The dialogue was never about her, and it should have been. At a certain point, I felt numb to it all. We all needed to step back and focus on gaining justice for Taylor and her family.
Before the rest of the world heard about Breonna's story in Louisville, we were aware of what happened when she died in March 2020. It happened on my city's soil. This was at the start of the pandemic, we knew her case was important and egregious, but it seemed like another Black person being killed and being swept under the rug.
I know many current and former law enforcement officers, and I had been keeping tabs on the story from all angles. Initially, it didn't feel like people were mobilized in a way that would help Breonna Taylor's family. And I'm not a protester, but I wanted to do things that would make a difference. I didn't want to be screaming in the echo chamber of people who always wanted justice for Taylor and for all the Black and brown people who law enforcement officers have killed. But, I wanted to feel something. Locally, yes, we wanted to raise awareness, but we wanted to know that people were mobilizing to enact change.
I coach volleyball, a predominantly white and affluent sport, in Louisville. My "change" might be that I can help open the girls' eyes on my team. I want them to gain perspective. I challenge them and their parents to live more broadly, live beyond their bubble. It's emotionally exhausting to explain Breonna Taylor's death and the significance of protest in her honor to those that might be oblivious. But maybe that's my opportunity to create change.
We don't have a professional sports team here, but high school and collegiate football and basketball teams started protesting during games. But in sports that don't traditionally have Black and brown athletes on their teams, like volleyball or field hockey, those are the sports that need to be challenged to elevate. You might hear "say her name" during a football game, but not necessarily during a field hockey game. It might not be welcomed. It might be met with backlash. We live in Kentucky. That's the only thing I can say. We live in Kentucky.
Of course, some local volleyball teams and other predominately white teams have protested. Some have worn t-shirts, and they've made statements, and team members have gone out to protest. And they are trying to build programs of mentorship and allyship. I've seen this happen at the University of Kentucky and the University of Louisville. That's a good thing. But, I don't want it to be a trend. I want it to continue. I don't want it to go out of a media cycle and then nothing's happening. I want real change here, and it takes time.
I challenge myself to have those conversations and challenge my fellow athletes, university presidents and athletic directors, and those who work in majority-white spaces -- in sports and beyond -- to have those real conversations. That's where change begins.
