An Open Letter to the People I Am Afraid to Talk to Except When They Hire Me or I Need to Evict a Tenant

I’ll be honest with you.

I will do it.

I don’t particularly enjoy being a cultural anthropologist. I don’t particularly enjoy being used as arbiter and ultimate trump card when White people are trying to determine why Mr. T had a nose ring for instance. Or whether Stringer Bell as an archetype, finds genuine genesis in the authentic Black tradition.

I suppose there is no harm in settling that one. Shout out to Asbert Muhammad, and Stretch—the Stringer Bells in my actual life.

But I will do it.

I don’t mind. If you ask me if that nigger deserves to die, I will tell you. If you call and ask me right before you pull the trigger. When he has his hands up, or tears on his face, or that pathetic sneer that makes you wonder why you wasted all your fucking time feeding him, or whether he knows that adults aren’t even allowed to make that expression past nineteen. That stubborn, stupid, expression that is the exclusive province of people who believe they understand what the world is like without having the benefit of experience. Even then. Right at that moment, if you call me… I will do it.

I will even be honest.

We kill lots of Black people, man. Black men excel at killing Black men. You know. You’ve heard the statistics at the briefings, and you’ve seen those just-before-prime-time shows. I don’t mean to brag, but in at least this, Black men have set some records. Athletics and entertainment, are not the only places where we shine. Some of the stupid people we’ve made famous are quick to remind anybody who will listen that for years the FBI and the Department of Justice kept some poorly understood statistics that seem to support the argument that Black people kill more Black people than the authorities do. Usually when the nation needs to be distracted. I wish that were true. The reality is you kill us more often than you should.

Just like you, we are forced to make a determination on an almost constant, and recurring, basis—should this Black man die today? Do his actions warrant death?

I empathize. I had to make that determination on my wedding day. I said something to a young woman. An innocuous comment. I was even trying to be funny. She said that my sister-in-law’s car was parked too close to theirs.

I responded, “No. Yours.” I exaggerated the last syllable so I sounded like a petulant toddler. Before I could react, her boyfriend, or her brother, or her cousin, or her stepfather was in my space communicating his anger, and his resentment. This young man tried desperately to communicate his value to me. I am not nobody he said, although the words that actually came from his mouth were, “Go suck out yu madda.”

I know, “You and everybody else needs to stop patronizing me,” was what he really meant though. But the education system you know? It’s not like it used to be. Teachers don’t get paid enough.

To be clear, I am offering to translate as well. I still speak young Black male. Like most Black people I am tri-lingual. I also happen to speak Ebonics, patois, and job-interview. I admit, at my age, it does get harder every year. There is new slang to learn, and new music to be surprised at, but I do still speak it. I know that I look respectable now, and live in a nice place, and understand how belts work, and I have all these stupid accolades—businessman, entrepreneur, immigration paralegal, ghostwriter, publisher, pillar of the community, asset to society. I know it may not seem as though we have anything in common. It’s hard to see past the smile, the few extra pounds, and the sensible shoes. It’s true though. I’m not lying to you. I was once them. I even have the credentials. You can run my record.

And for real, for real, if I am such a pillar of the community call me before you shoot him then. Let me put that pillar of the community thing to some actual good use. Give me the opportunity to tell you that he doesn’t have a mother who done told him time and time again… Let me tell you that he doesn’t have children waiting for him at home. Let me tell you if the last time he got some money he was out there with them trifling hoes, or if he bought some books for his younger sibling because he didn’t have no daddy, there’s nobody else to buy them if he don’t, and he knows what that feels like.

I promise. I will tell you the truth.

Call me. Let me tell you what they say about him at the barbershop.

I don’t have the right, or the authority to make the decision you’re empowered to. We both agree it would be better for all involved if you weren’t in this situation. If you didn’t have to make the choice. But you have to agree that I have something you don’t have. I have the experience. I make this decision a lot. Sometimes multiple times a day. So call me. I’ll tell you.

This jackass actually said to me, “Suck your mother.” He wanted my anger to blind me. He had something hidden in his pocket that he wanted desperately to show off. My sister-in-law told me she was pretty sure whatever he was hiding was going to be loud.

I said, “I’ve done that since the day I was born. My mother didn’t have no C-Section. Plus I was breast-fed. I’m sorry if your mother didn’t do that for you.”

And then I told him to shut up and fight.

But few people have more anger than me. He went skulking off to the ATM, tail between his legs. He even drove away angry. Tires chirping in the parking lot. I think he was actually daring people to react. He was searching for someone to sneer at. And I am standing there, like an idiot, jeering at him. I wanted desperately to show him what I have that allowed me to make it past twenty-five.

It was loud enough that your colleagues came. Thankfully, they didn’t shoot either of us. I hope it was because of the giltless, flared train on my wife’s wedding dress, or my tuxedo.

I didn’t hear her the first time. But the second time my sister-in-law screamed, “Jesus Christ! Remember your wife! On your wedding day?” I understood the question she was really asking. Tri-lingual remember? Thankfully, all your colleagues did was look at us, hands on holsters, and look relieved that the young man and I had the sense to walk away. For whatever reason they decided not to end my wedding, my life, or even my day.

And I admit, this is a wholly unworkable solution. These moments are microscopic. A split of a second, a fraction of a breath, a micron of time. I could be busy when you’re trying to call. I run a business, and truth to be told, I play a lot of StarCraft. But I am hopeful that I am not the only Black man you know. I want you to trust me here. This is about the only situation where it’s perfectly fine if you think all of us look alike. Truly. In this situation, any of us will do. Even O.J. Even Tiger Woods.

Call your pastor, or your colleague, or even the shifty guy your cousin used to date. The one whose plates you ran? If you still have his number in your phone (just in case) now is not a bad time to use it. Call your football coach. Call your wrestling coach. Call the history teacher who gave you an unexpectedly warm recommendation when you applied to the academy. And if none of those are Black men, call them anyway. Chances are they know one. Trust me. Whoever they know, that guy will work too.

I don’t envy you the weight of that decision.

I just want you to make the right one. And I will tell you one final thing.

In my experience, the only way they learn from their mistakes is if they live.

Like I said. You can run my record.

#ihaveadream #blacklivesmatter #sweetsin #freelancelife #freelancewriting