Little Black Boy

My little black seven-year-old cousin sat next me paralyzed with fear as the news channel replayed George Floyd’s lynching on shuffle like his favorite Ninja Turtles episode. For 8 minutes and 46 seconds, we watched as police officers slowly but surely choked the life out of George Floyd like they were big game hunting ... too cowardly to hunt without help. 

Before that video, my cousin was a seven-year-old black boy blind to the dangers that await him every time he breathes. He played—protected by the overly attentive tribe around him that knows the lay of the land. From the time he was born some in society deemed him a menace to "god-fearing" people. 

Unfortunately, becoming a man in other cultures follows a different standard from that in Black culture. You become a man when you realize that your life can be snatched from you in your home “on accident," on a jog “on accident," on a routine traffic stop “on accident," at school “on accident," anyplace ... anywhere ... anytime ... a Black man... a Black person ... can die for no reason. 

For 8 minutes and 46 seconds, America got a first-hand view of how Black lives do not matter in this country. Americans—many for the first time—could not deny the unadulterated truth: overlooked and marginalizes, Black people, live under the thumbs—and knees—of a hateful oppressor whose privilege systematically oppresses African Americans from the time the ink dries on their birth certificates through years of mental, physical, and emotional abuse that breaks you down until the ink dries on your death certificate. 

Looking up at me in confusion as I sit in a silent rage brewing with the pain of my ancestors running rapidly through my body, my little cousin asks...

"Cousin, why won't they stop?" in a soft innocent voice. 

Numb, uncertain if he can handle the truth, I do not know if I can bring myself to tell him. I stare deep inside the innocence of a child's eyes—alive in a world of minimal cares and simple joys. I sat tongue-tied with the truth and the unequivocal emotion of the pain I would share. 

I take a deep breath and say, "Because they don't like him."

"Why?" he replies with a concerned look no child should wear. 

"Because sometimes people—mean people—don't like people that look like me and you."

"What do you mean?"

I point to my skin, confusing him more. 

"Some peoples families didn't teach them what your mommy taught you. To treat all people with respect and kindness. Some people judge us by the beauty of our skin."

"Our skin?"

"Yes," I replied.

"Some people don't like us because of our beautiful Black skin." 

I watched as his soulful Black mind tried to process all the information given to him. The news played in the background and the flames from the streets illuminated in his eyes. 

Concern overrides my anger. I pause—consumed by my little cousin's innocence—frightened as I watch it seep from his body. Warriors, kings, queens, scholars, philosophers, athletes, and scientists, we suffered the cruellest of fates—taken captive and transported to a spiritless nation whose core bares no seed to be harvested. 

A nation that stole the very identity it denigrates. 

We remain the malnourished stepchildren of America, with voices unheard for four hundred years. Our cruel treatment provokes us to seek attention in ways some deem barbaric, beastly, and uncouth.  

Ignored, exiled, and murdered when the likes of Martin Luther King, Colin Kaepernick, and countless other brilliant community leaders attempted to seek peaceful redress for our grievances, Black people took a more controversial and overt approach. 

If we could not get your attention and if death, humiliation, or exile is almost certain for anyone who dares to speak out, we might as well demand attention in a profound manner.

It used to be no justice, no peace. Now there will be no city without justice. The blood of slaves stains the fabric of America—and wraps our nation in economic despair and classism; birthed by the men who stole America and implemented a system of hatred that we now know as racism. 

Those who live in fear of losing the very privilege that keeps this universe on an uneven tilt deserve no sympathy for they remain complicit—and/or silent—in speaking out against the devilish blueprints that spoiled the promise of a great nation. 

You can go far in this country killing Black folks, this has always been evident. Black lives fall beneath those of dogs in this country. 

If you ask racists why they hate black people, most cannot tell you. They love our culture ... but not us. Black, athletes, actors, artists, influencers, slang, literature, science and philosophy matter –but not the actual life. 

I could not focus as the news played in the background hitting my subconscious unknowingly. My cousin and I sat talking like men over an icy Tropical Punch Kool-Aid Jammer eating a bag of potato chips in which he dug his dirty hands while talking about his beautiful blackness until he grew anxious, asking...  

"Cousin can I ride my bike down the block."

I sighed—turning my attention to the news as a clip of Ahmaud Arbery played in a loop. I mustered the energy to respond.  

"Sure ... but you need to know what to do if an officer pulls you over on your bike. Meet in the front."

Welcome to America!