For George Floyd, a Complicated Life and Consequential Death

Demonstrators take part in a Justice for George Floyd protest in New York City, New York, US March 8, 2021. (Reuters)
Demonstrators take part in a Justice for George Floyd protest in New York City, New York, US March 8, 2021. (Reuters)
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For George Floyd, a Complicated Life and Consequential Death

Demonstrators take part in a Justice for George Floyd protest in New York City, New York, US March 8, 2021. (Reuters)
Demonstrators take part in a Justice for George Floyd protest in New York City, New York, US March 8, 2021. (Reuters)

Years before a bystander’s video of George Floyd’s last moments turned his name into a global cry for justice, Floyd trained a camera on himself. Former Minneapolis police Officer Derek Chauvin was convicted by a jury on April 20, 2021, of murder and manslaughter in the death of Floyd.

“I just want to speak to you all real quick,” Floyd says in one video, addressing the young men in his neighborhood who looked up to him. His 6-foot-7 frame crowds the picture.

“I’ve got my shortcomings and my flaws and I ain’t better than nobody else,” he says. “But, man, the shootings that’s going on, I don’t care what ’hood you’re from, where you’re at, man. I love you and God loves you. Put them guns down.”

At the time, Floyd was respected as a man who spoke from hard, but hardly extraordinary, experience. He had nothing remotely like the stature he has gained in death, embraced as a universal symbol of the need to overhaul policing and held up as a heroic everyman.

But the reality of his 46 years on Earth, including sharp edges and setbacks Floyd himself acknowledged, was both much fuller and more complicated.

Once a star athlete with dreams of turning pro and enough talent to win a partial scholarship, Floyd returned home only to bounce between jobs before serving nearly five years in prison. Intensely proud of his roots in Houston’s Third Ward and admired as a mentor in a public housing project beset by poverty, he decided the only way forward was to leave it behind.

“He had made some mistakes that cost him some years of his life,” said Ronnie Lillard, a friend and rapper who performs under the name Reconcile. “And when he got out of that, I think the Lord greatly impacted his heart.”

‘Big Friendly’
Floyd was born in North Carolina. But his mother, a single parent, moved the family to Houston when he was 2, so she could search for work. They settled in the Cuney Homes, a low-slung warren of more than 500 apartments south of downtown nicknamed “The Bricks.”

The neighborhood, for decades a cornerstone of Houston’s black community, has gentrified in recent years. Texas Southern University, a historically black campus directly across the street from the projects, has long held itself out as a launchpad for those willing to strive. But many residents struggle, with incomes about half the city average and unemployment nearly four times higher, even before the recent economic collapse.

Yeura Hall, who grew up next door to Floyd, said even in the Third Ward other kids looked down on those who lived in public housing. To deflect the teasing, he, Floyd and other boys made up a song about themselves: “I don’t want to grow up, I’m a Cuney Homes kid. They got so many rats and roaches I can play with.”

Larcenia Floyd invested her hopes in her son, who as a second-grader wrote that he dreamed of being a US Supreme Court justice.

“She thought that he would be the one that would bring them out of poverty and struggle,” said Travis Cains, a longtime friend.

Floyd was a star tight end for the football team at Jack Yates High School, playing for the losing side in the 1992 state championship game at Texas Memorial Stadium in Austin.

He was an atypical football player. “We used to call him ‘Big Friendly,’” said Cervaanz Williams, a former teammate.

“If you said something to him, his head would drop,” said Maurice McGowan, his football coach. “He just wasn’t going to ball up and act like he wanted to fight you.”

On the basketball court, Floyd’s height and strength won attention from George Walker, a former assistant coach at the University of Houston hired for the head job at what is now South Florida State College. The school was a 17-hour drive away, in a small town, but high school administrators and Floyd’s mother urged him to go, Walker said.

“They wanted George to really get out of the neighborhood, to do something, be something,” Walker said.

In Avon Park, Florida, Floyd and a few other players from Houston stood out for their size, accents and city cool. They lived in the Jacaranda Hotel, a historic lodge used as a dormitory, and were known as the “Jac Boys.”

“He was always telling me about the Third Ward of Houston, how rough it was, but how much he loved it,” said Robert Caldwell, a friend and fellow student who frequently traveled with the basketball team. “He said people know how to grind, as hard as it is, people know how to love.”

After two years in Avon Park, Floyd spent a year at Texas A&M University in Kingsville before returning to Houston and his mother’s apartment to find jobs in construction and security.

Larcenia Floyd, known throughout the neighborhood as Ms. Cissy, welcomed her son’s friends from childhood, offering their apartment as refuge when their lives grew stressful. When a neighbor went to prison on drug charges, Ms. Cissy took in the woman’s pre-teen son, Cal Wayne, deputizing George to play older brother for the next 2½ years.

“We would steal his jerseys and put his jerseys on and run around the house, go outside, jerseys all the way down to our ankles because he was so big and we were little,” said Wayne, now a well-known rapper who credits Floyd with encouraging him to pursue music.

George Floyd, he said, “was like a superhero.”

Time in jail
Floyd, too, dabbled in music, occasionally invited to rap with Robert Earl Davis Jr. -- better known as DJ Screw, whose mixtapes have since been recognized as influential in charting Houston’s place as a hotbed of hip-hop.

But then, the man known throughout Cuney as “Big Floyd,” started finding trouble.

Between 1997 and 2005, Floyd was arrested several times on drug and theft charges, spending months in jail. Around that time, Wayne’s mother, Sheila Masters, recalled running into Floyd in the street and learning he was homeless.

“He’s so tall he’d pat me on my head ... and say, ‘Mama you know it’s going to be all right,’” Masters said.

In August 2007, Floyd was arrested and charged with aggravated robbery with a deadly weapon. Investigators said he and five other men barged into a woman’s apartment, and Floyd pushed a pistol into her abdomen before searching for items to steal. Floyd pleaded guilty in 2009 and was sentenced to five years in prison. By the time he was paroled, in January 2013, he was nearing 40.

“He came home with his head on right,” said friend Travis Cains.

At a Christian rap concert in the Third Ward, Floyd met Lillard and pastor Patrick “PT” Ngwolo, whose ministry was looking for ways to reach residents in Cuney Homes. Floyd, who seemed to know everyone in the project, volunteered to be their guide.

Soon Floyd was setting up a washtub on the Cuney basketball courts for baptisms by Ngwolo’s newly formed Resurrection Houston congregation. He joined three-on-three basketball tournaments and barbecues, organized by the ministry. He knocked on doors with Ngwolo, introducing residents as candidates for grocery deliveries or Bible study.

Another pastor, Christopher Johnson, recalled Floyd stopping by his office while Johnson’s mother was visiting. Decades had passed since Johnson’s mother had been a teacher at Floyd’s high school. It didn’t matter. He wrapped her in a bear hug.

“I don’t think he ever thought of himself as being big,” Johnson said. “There’s a lot of big dudes here, but he was a gentleman and a diplomat and I’m not putting any sauce on it.”

On the streets of Cuney, Floyd was increasingly embraced as an O.G. -- literally “original gangster,” but bestowed as a title of respect for a mentor who’d learned from life experience.

In Tiffany Cofield’s classroom at a neighborhood charter school, some of her male students -- many of whom had already had brushes with the law -- told her to talk to “Big Floyd” if she wanted to understand.

Floyd would listen patiently as she voiced her frustrations with students’ bad behavior, she said. And he would try to explain the life of a young man in the projects.

After school, Floyd often met up with her students outside a corner store.

“How’s school going?” he’d ask. “Are you being respectful? How’s your mom? How’s your grandma?”

New beginning
In 2014, Floyd began exploring the possibility of leaving the neighborhood.

As the father of five children from several relationships, he had bills to pay. And despite his stature in Cuney, everyday life could be trying. More than once, Floyd ended up in handcuffs when police came through the projects and detained a large number of men, Cofield said.

“He would show by example: ‘Yes, officer. No, officer.’ Very respectful. Very calm tone,” she said.

A friend of Floyd’s had already moved to the Twin Cities as part of a church discipleship program that offered men a route to self-sufficiency by changing their environment and helping them find jobs.

“He was looking to start over fresh, a new beginning,” said Christopher Harris, who preceded Floyd to Minneapolis. Friends provided Floyd with money and clothing to ease the transition.

In Minneapolis, Floyd found a job as a security guard at the Salvation Army’s Harbor Light Center -- the city’s largest homeless shelter.

“He would regularly walk a couple of female co-workers out ... at night and make sure they got to their cars safely and securely,” said Brian Molohon, director of development for the Army’s Minnesota office. “Just a big strong guy, but with a very tender side.”

Floyd left after a little over a year, training to drive trucks while working as a bouncer at a club called Conga Latin Bistro.

“He would dance badly to make people laugh,” said the owner, Jovanni Thunstrom. “I tried to teach him how to dance because he loved Latin music, but I couldn’t because he was too tall for me.”

Floyd kept his connection to Houston, regularly returning to Cuney.

When Houston hosted the Super Bowl in 2017, Floyd was back in town, hosting a party at the church with music and free AIDS testing. He came back again for his mother’s funeral the next year. And when Cains spoke with him last, a few weeks ago, Floyd was planning another trip for this summer.

By then, Floyd was out of work. Early this spring, Thunstrom cut Floyd’s job when the COVID-19 pandemic forced the club to close.

On the evening of Memorial Day, Floyd was with two others when convenience store employees accused him of paying for cigarettes with a counterfeit $20 bill, then called the police. Less than an hour later, Floyd breathed his last.

Those who knew him search for meaning in his death.

“I’ve come to the belief that he was chosen,” said Cofield, the teacher. “Only this could have happened to him because of who he was and the amount of love that he had for people, people had for him.”

It’s a small comfort, she admits. But, then, in Big Floyd’s neighborhood, people have long made do with less.



Johnny Moore… What Do We Know About Chairman of Gaza Humanitarian Foundation

People carrying boxes and bags containing food and humanitarian aid packages distributed by the Gaza Humanitarian Foundation last month in Rafah, in southern Gaza. (AP)
People carrying boxes and bags containing food and humanitarian aid packages distributed by the Gaza Humanitarian Foundation last month in Rafah, in southern Gaza. (AP)
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Johnny Moore… What Do We Know About Chairman of Gaza Humanitarian Foundation

People carrying boxes and bags containing food and humanitarian aid packages distributed by the Gaza Humanitarian Foundation last month in Rafah, in southern Gaza. (AP)
People carrying boxes and bags containing food and humanitarian aid packages distributed by the Gaza Humanitarian Foundation last month in Rafah, in southern Gaza. (AP)

As the world condemned the killings this week of dozens of hungry Palestinians near US-backed aid sites in Gaza, the group responsible for distributing that aid quietly appointed a new leader: an evangelical Christian with ties to the Trump administration.

The group, the Gaza Humanitarian Foundation, which was founded last year, announced on Tuesday that Johnnie Moore, an American public relations professional, would be its new executive chairman after the previous chief quit.

Moore’s appointment comes as the foundation, which began handing out food boxes last week, temporarily halted operations on Wednesday to work on “organization and efficiency.”

It had been racked by a resignation in its ranks, chaos at its distribution sites and violence nearby, including two shooting episodes in which dozens of Palestinians were killed, according to local health workers.

Here is what to know about Moore and his ties to the Trump administration.

A presence in the Oval Office

Moore was a spokesman for Liberty University, the Christian institution founded in Lynchburg, Virginia., in 1971 by the Rev. Jerry Falwell, for a dozen years before moving into the media industry and starting his own faith-based public relations firm.

He represented early evangelical supporters of President Trump, including Jerry Falwell Jr, who succeeded his father at Liberty University, and Paula White, who now leads the White House faith office.

Moore was co-chairman of the 2016 Trump presidential campaign’s evangelical advisory board and an influential figure during Trump’s first administration. He was part of a coalition of Christian leaders who paid regular visits to the White House, attending policy briefings, as well as prayer meetings in the Oval Office.

His public relations company, Kairos, was acquired in 2022 by JDA Worldwide, and Moore now serves as president of that larger firm.

When he announced the acquisition on social media, Moore referred to his work in public relations as his “day job” as he has had many other roles and projects linked to his faith and interest in foreign policy, including writing books on the persecution of Christians in the Middle East and Africa.

In 2017, Moore told The New York Times that he and other evangelicals had pressed Trump to recognize Israeli sovereignty over Jerusalem and to move the US Embassy there. “It has been an issue of priority for a long time,” he said.

Moore describes himself as “a bridge builder and peacemaker especially known for consequential work at the intersection of faith and foreign policy, especially in the Middle East.”

The embassy move drew condemnation from Palestinian and Arab leaders, the heads of many Christian churches in Jerusalem and much of the international community, which has long viewed the status of Jerusalem as a matter to be resolved through negotiations over a future Palestinian state.

A cheerleader for Mike Huckabee

Moore, like many evangelicals, including Mike Huckabee, the US ambassador to Israel, is committed to a Jewish state based on his interpretation of the Bible.

Some evangelicals view their support for Israel as an important element of their belief in biblical prophecy. Speaking to The Washington Post in 2018, Moore said he had advised White House officials that “those who bless Israel will be blessed.”

Moore cheered Huckabee’s nomination, saying on social media in November that “selecting a lifelong non-Jewish Zionist as the US ambassador to Israel sends a powerful message to friend and foe of America.”

Huckabee, 69, and Moore, 41, have walked similar paths as public figures and Christian media creators, and they have been described as friends in Israeli news media. The embassy did not respond to a request for comment on their relationship.

The new face of a troubled Gaza organization

Israel imposed a blockade on supplies entering the Gaza Strip in March, accusing Hamas of looting humanitarian aid. That embargo was lifted to a limited degree last month, after the international community raised alarms about widespread hunger in the enclave.

Israelis conceived of the new system to establish aid distribution sites run by American security contractors in the enclave. It was meant, officials said, to circumvent Hamas, which Israel accused of stealing assistance meant for civilians.

But the rollout of the Gaza Humanitarian Foundation’s operation has been chaotic. Its previous head resigned hours before the initiative was set to begin late last month, citing a lack of autonomy.

On Tuesday, Boston Consulting Group, a US advisory firm, said that it had stepped back from its involvement with the organization, that it had placed a partner who had worked on the project on leave and that it would conduct an internal review of its work.

Humanitarian organizations have criticized the foundation’s approach to aid distribution for a lack of independence from Israel, whose soldiers are positioned near the sites and have fired what the Israeli military has called “warning” shots on multiple occasions.

And the United Nations has refused to have anything to do with the effort because it says Israel is militarizing and politicizing humanitarian assistance and putting Palestinians in danger.

As reports of disarray at aid distribution sites emerged during the project’s first week, Moore said the effort was “working” and should be “celebrated.”

When the Gazan health authorities reported shooting deaths near one of the foundation’s sites, Moore reposted a statement from Huckabee accusing the news media and Hamas of spreading misinformation.

Moore lists 18 years of service with World Help, a Christian humanitarian organization, among his volunteer experiences, along with his new appointment at the Gaza foundation and his roles on various advisory boards, including that of the nonpartisan advocacy group Muslim Coalition for America and Haifa University in Israel.

In a statement about his appointment, Moore said he would help “ensure the humanitarian aid community and the broader international community understand what’s taking place on the ground.” The foundation declined a request for an interview.

*Ephrat Livni is a reporter for The New York Times’ DealBook newsletter, based in Washington.