Blog

My son is dead on the street. A part of me lay dead, too. The whole of me crumples over with the weight of ‘Why?’ I look around at everyone watching and hope they do more, hope they witness to my irrevocable, unspeakable loss in broad daylight. Don’t let me bury my son alone. ***** Will you step in as a pallbearer for our dead? The mothers want to know – will you walk with us the final distance to…

This is my son. He's ten years old. His life matters. How sad that I feel the need to document the obvious. But the last set of days this thought has permeated my thinking. In the months prior, I've been grateful he is currently living overseas where his color isn't a factor in how his neighbors perceive him. I seldom say this out loud because people, mostly white people, accuse me of over-reacting or misreading the context or being too…

Her dreads sway around her shoulders as she walks – and when she twirls her headdress of black ropes spins like a merri-go-round, whipping through the air with whimsy. I’m often mesmerized by her hair, those thick strands of luster sheen yarn reaching down her back, framing her face, sometimes tangling with her long lashes. I gather the dreads up in my hands as I make a ponytail high atop her head and I marvel at their strength - chords…

This isn’t the first time I felt scared for my son. I remember when I first learned that dark-skinned men are more likely to be incarcerated. Or young men of color are more likely to be falsely accused of crimes. Or black boys are more likely to be victims of violent crime… When I learned of the verdict sadness revisited my mama’s heart. My son might not be so safe walking in our suburban neighborhood – especially if it’s a…