I am driving down the street
with my 5-year-old nephew.
He, knocking back a juice
box, me, a Snapple, today
we are doing some real
manly shit. I love
watching his mind work.
He asks a million questions.
Uncle, how come the sky is blue?
Uncle, how do cars go?
Uncle, why can't dogs talk?
Uncle, uncle, uncle, he asks,
uncle, uncle, uncle, he asks
uncle, repeatedly,
as if his voice box is
a warped record. I try
to answer all of his questions.
It's because the way
the sun lights up outer space.
It's because the engines
make the wheels roll.
It's because their brains aren't
made like ours. Yes.
Yes. No. Yes. No. No. I think so.
He smiles at me, then
looks out the window,
spots a cop car, says,
"Uncle, 5-0," and immediately
drops his seat to hide.
I am unhappy
with how we raise our Black boys.
Don't like that
he learned to hide
from the cops before
he knew how to read.
Angrier that his survival
depends more on
his ability to deal
with the "authorities"
than it does literacy.
I yell at him: Get up.
In this car, in this family,
we are not afraid
of the law.
I wonder if he hears
the uncertainty in my voice.
Is today the day he learns
how uncle lies,
that I am more human
than hero?
We both know the truth
is far more complex than
do not hide. We both know
Black boys disappear. Names lost.
Both know this is no accident.
It's a mass lynching in auto tune
and on auto drive. We both
know the truth is far
more dangerous than that.
Know too many Trayvon Martins,
Oscar Grants, too many Sean Bells,
Abner Louimas, and Amadou Diallos.
Know too well that we are
the hard-boiled sons of Emmett Till.
Still, we both know
it's not about whether or not
the shooter is racist,
it's about how poor Black males
are treated as problems
before we are treated as people.
Black boys, who are failed
by the education system long before
we fail in the classroom,
can't afford to play cops
and robbers when we're always considered the latter,
don't have the luxury
of playing war
when we're already in one.
Where I'm from,
seeing cop cars drive
down the street feels a lot
like low-flying planes in New York.
Routine traffic stops are more
like mine fields, any wrong moves
could very well mean your life.
How do I tell my nephew to stand
up for himself, when Black men
are murdered every day for being
strong. I tell him, be careful. Be smart.
Know your laws. Be courteous,
be aware of how quickly your hands move
to pocket for wallet or ID, and
even more aware of how quickly
the officer's hand moves to gun.
Be Black. Be a boy and have fun,
because you will be forced to
become a man much quicker
than you need to.
"Uncle," he asks, "what happens
if the police is really mean?"
And, it scares me to
know that he, like
so many Black boys,
is getting ready for a war
I can't prepare him for.