published in Winthrop University's Literary and Arts Magazine, The Anthology, 2020.
Since my soul now rests under the fallen bricks of my dead brothers and sisters, God, I ask you: What can I tell my beautiful black son? His eyes twinkle like the Northern star our ancestors used to follow back when they tried to escape the cottonfield. You’re looking for the freedom I can’t tell you about.
I stare at my soul, which bleeds red and blue like the police lights that dance on the concrete. I didn’t want this for you. Walking around the streets with your too big “in memory” shirt, trying to think of better memories of your daddy besides the slight frown on his face when he died. Being the man of the house before you even know how to tie your own damn shoes, Lord knows I didn’t ask for this. Nights where you sit and wait on a red barstool for me to finish my shift. You drool on your homework, and your clothes smell more and more like burnt bacon and overcooked waffles. Your lullabies be that white 80s rom-com music muffled in the speakers.
What can I tell you, standing on blistered feet? My son, they’ll say your skin is dark like pieces of old gum clogged with dirt on subway station floors. Mr. Officer won’t tell you your brain is faster than the speed of light and your skin is as radiant as your soul. No, my son, you’ll be the one that they peek through the aisles for, staying in yours a little longer in case you try to slip something in the pocket of your hoodie.
Today you asked me about the Jeep again. I didn’t lie this time. I know what the will said. You would get it once you got your license, but I still haven’t managed to get the bloodstains out. You’re almost sixteen now. Your smooth skin is getting darker, and you got little hairs on your lip and chin. You look just like he did when we first started dating each other, and I hate that.
When you get that little piece of plastic, a marker of your ability to drive, you’ll get pulled over because all they see is him. I know you still know what it feels like to sit on those clothed seats in his ‘87 Jeep Wrangler with bits of french fry salt and your barbecue sauce stains. The speed limit was 55. He was going 56. You could barely hear them with your new headphones; But you saw the spit coming out of Mr. Officer’s mouth hitting your daddy’s skin. Daddy got out. His hand never left his gun. I knew he shouldn’t have put his hand in his pocket. Your father’s red blood was spilled on the white concrete faster than I could blink. That asshole they call a cop stood there ready to shoot me. Tears stained your black face. You watched me hold him; his blood-covered my hands.
I don’t want that to get you. You’ll spend your whole life looking into that dirty toothpaste and spit spotted mirror, thinking about Daddy. When you shave and let those hairs fall like ash onto the white countertop, you’ll remember seeing your Daddy on TV and how everyone said he was an aggressive black man provoking the cop. You’ll see the funeral and how, for the first time in his life, Daddy didn’t have a smile on his face. Since then, I’ve seen you walk around with that same look of discontent. You thought it would end with Daddy, but it only seemed to get worse. Your eyes have been filled with visions of dead black men on concrete, some white man standing above them trying to serve and protect. You wonder when it will ever stop. To be honest, son, I don’t think it ever will.
Despite my tears and the fear that has cemented the hearts of our people, I don’t want him to make you hate the America you live in, the one that was built with people who looked like you and me. He’ll make you think you’re not special, like it’s their privilege for you to exist. I know you’re still wondering if freedom was supposed to feel like this. If you were supposed to live with your hands up, a white flag of surrender pressed around your chest. You can cry to me. You can ask the questions. You can scream. But after all of your anger is spent, after your tears don’t want to cry, you need to get up. The world is yours, my beautiful black son. Don’t live like me. You are more than a broken soul with pieces still scattered somewhere in a cottonfield.
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