I was beyond confused. Why was this white man lying for me?
“He’s lying, officer! He doesn’t even know him!” the security guard in the hoodie objected.
“His name is Frederick, he’s eleven, and he’s a good kid. Let him go,” Brian said.
“This is why these black kids never learn. They act like thugs and never deal with any consequences,” the guard in the hoodie said.
“Thugs? He’s a kid. Is that why you attacked an eleven-year-old and cut his arm?” Brian pointed at the blood running down my arm that I hadn’t realized was there.
“Maybe you want to explain that to the news?” Brian continued. “How about you, officers? A white man asks an eleven-year-old kid to help him pick out birthday presents, and security decides to assault him, and the police arrest him. Even though the white man admitted it was his mistake.”
The officers and security guards looked at one another for a second, and then one officer took his hand off my shoulder, looked at me, and said, “Get the hell out of here, kid.”
I looked at Brian as the officer approached him, and I began to say, “He didn’t—”
Brian cut me off, pulled out his wallet, and said, “It’s okay. Go.” I didn’t move.
“Go!” Brian said again more firmly.
I began to walk toward the exit. Before I left, Brian yelled, “Frederick!”
I turned around, and he said, “Don’t forget to listen to your mother!” Then one of the officers pushed me through the door.
Once I was out of the store, I ran from the mall. I didn’t bother going to the food court and finding Ryan or Vanessa. I ran to a bus stop and waited there, crying until a bus pulled up, and then I sat on the bus and cried until I got home, the whole time thinking about what I had just done, how close I had come to undoing everything I had been taught.
I never told anyone what had happened. I also never explained to Ryan what happened after he ran, but I stopped being friends with him.
I didn’t expect him to take the fall for me like Brian did, or put himself in harm’s way. But he left me like I was nothing.
I never saw Brian again, though I thought about what he did for me for a long time. But I didn’t really understand it until I got older.
What I did was wrong. But it seemed that Brian understood the bigger picture. Because I was Black, I wasn’t being treated as if I was a kid who had made a mistake.
I wasn’t a thug, a thief, a liar, or an a**hole. I was just an eleven-year-old kid who made a mistake because he was tired of being bullied.
Unlike the other customers in the store, Brian didn’t just stand by and watch these white men derail my life because of a mistake; he used his privilege to do the right thing. He decided to be an accomplice; he decided to make a change.
Another thing I’ve considered as I’ve gotten older is that there was no reward or public merit for Brian’s actions. He wasn’t attempting to be a white savior—he seemingly just wanted to do the right thing.
That moment helped me understand exactly why my mother and grandmother feared for my life. Why they wouldn’t let me pretend to play with guns. Why they held me close whenever police walked by.
Because Black kids don’t get to make mistakes. Black kids don’t get to be kids. Black kids get judgment and bullets.
Remember when I said I was scared to have children of my own? It’s because bringing Black children into the world means there will be another generation thrown into a toxic society filled with daily microaggressions. It means they will have a life filled with tragic moments fueled by racism. Moments such as the first time they learn what the word “nigger” means.
Black children have to lose their innocence before white children do. They can’t afford the luxury of just reading about the impact of racism and white supremacy in a book, because they’re living it every day. Because oftentimes it means life or death.
These children aren’t alone. In this country and around the world, generation after generation, children of color are having to carry the weight of survival, simply because they aren’t white.
This was the case with me when my mother sat me down and explained why some people would treat me poorly throughout my life because I didn’t look like them. I was about eight years old at the time.
These are the same conversations I’ve been having with my younger brother. Conversations about being Black. Conversations about history. Conversations about racism. Conversations about survival.
He’s eight years old.
My brother is the same age I was when I started having these conversations, and some may think they are too early. But Tamir Rice was only a few years older than him when he was murdered by police officer Timothy Loehmann. Tamir was described as looking “like an adult,” as “looking vicious,” as being “frightening.” He was a twelve-year-old child. He was a baby. Now he’s gone.
Our children don’t get to just be children, don’t get to just be innocent. The weight of the world is on our children, and it’s crucial that we teach them to hold it.
I’ve been watching as my brother learns about the world around him, and as he does, his innocence slowly leaves his eyes and his spirit, replaced by fear and caution. It breaks my heart, but it must be done. Because I love him, because I know innocence won’t protect him. The same way it didn’t protect me.
Which is part of why I said no when I asked myself, “If I show people how they’re hurting others, will some of them be willing to change?” Because writing about these moments in this book hurt. And hearing others’ stories about similar or worse moments hurt. As I’ve written this book, I’ve ached and grieved for myself and for others.
Eventually that pain turned into fear and doubt. Because when you’ve been hurt time and time again by others, it can be damn hard to believe that anyone actually cares. That anything—or anyone—can or will actually change.
I began to tell myself that people might not change for the better even if I used examples from my personal experiences and life. I feared that the pain of Black people and people of color might not matter to anyone but us. I nearly defeated the idea of this book before even giving it a chance.
But along the way, I realized that if I don’t believe the answer is yes, then, as many people said, this is pointless. And if this is pointless, then I don’t have a way of making a change for my brother.
Which is why I’ve asked you to get to know me, hoping you’ll let me be the friend that you might not have. The person who tells you what not to do and why you shouldn’t do it. The type of person more of us need in our lives.
Friendship also means trust, and that’s why I’ve been honest with you. Honest about my pain, my fears, my mistakes, and my hopes. Because I trust you, it also means I believe in you.
I believe that after getting to know me, you’ll be the friend to someone else that I’ve been to you. You’ll remind people when they do something wrong that it’s not okay, and you’ll step in to be an accomplice when the moment calls for it. You’ll take a look at yourself and find the courage not to hurt people the way you have in the past, and the way others have done and continue to do.
I trust you, and that’s why I’ll be honest and tell you that change is not easy. For some people, it won’t matter that we’re friends, or that you’re friends with people who are like me.