STACEY PATTON - AUTHOR
RACIAL PROFILING YOUNG BLACK MEN
Many of you have asked me to weigh in on this Texas high school stabbing incident. So here it is ā¦.
I Believe Karmelo Anthony.
This 17-year-old Black boy is sitting behind bars with a million-dollar bond on his head. Charged with first-degree murder. News outlets are depicting him as a thug. Social media calls him a savage.
Weāre watching a one-sided, sympathy-soaked narrative unfold for the white family, with every effort made to humanize their son who was allegedly the aggressor. Nobodyās interrogating the deeper issue here: why did this white boy feel empowered to remove another studentāespecially a Black oneāfrom a public space he had every right to occupy?
Thatās not just bullying. Thatās racialized gatekeeping. Thatās centuries of entitlement showing up in a high school bleacher, dressed as authority he never actually had.
Strangers are asking: what kind of parents raised Karmelo Anthony?
They asked the same question about Trayvon Martin when he was hunted down for walking home in a hoodie with Skittles and iced tea. They asked the same about Tamir Rice after police killed him in seconds for holding a toy gun in a park. About Mike Brown Jr. after he was left baking in the street for hours.
Every time a Black child is killedāor in Karmeloās case, survivesāwhite America performs this ritual of parental inquisition. Not out of care. But to indict. To blame. To create distance between ātheirā children and ours.
And now theyāre combing through social media, sharing every photo they can find of Karmelo throwing up a middle finger, tilting his head just so, dressing how teenagers dress. Theyāre trying to sell him as a gangsta. Dangerous. Irredeemable.
Where have we seen this before?
We remember. Black Twitter called it out years ago with the hashtag #IfTheyGunnedMeDown. This was a movement that exposed the deliberate media tactic of digging through images to find the most āthuggishā looking photo of a slain Black victim, to justify their death. Meanwhile, their white counterparts, armed to the teeth, flashing Nazi signs, or dressed in tactical gear, are remembered with yearbook photos and glowing words.
So, letās not play dumb. Letās not pretend this is new.
This is the script. And itās time we burn it.
Because this isnāt about parenting. Itās about perception. Itās about the deep, racist instinct to see Black children as threats and white ones as innocent even when the Black child was the one being attacked.
But I believe Karmelo Anthony.
I believe him when he said he was protecting himself. I believe Karmelo because Black boys are not allowed to be afraid. Not allowed to defend themselves. Not allowed to survive when white violence shows up dressed as authority, entitlement, or bullying.
This time, the narrative is flippedāand they donāt like it.
According to reports, Karmelo was under the tent at the Frisco Memorial High School track meet, where he belonged. The white boyāAustin Metcalf, a twin, a football player, part of a popular crowd, reportedly a known bullyātold him to move. Witnesses say Metcalf grabbed him. Put his hands on him. That heād harassed Karmelo before. That heād broken his phone. That he allegedly called him the n-word.
And letās be clear: that word is not just a racist slur. Itās a threat. Itās a trigger. Itās a declaration of superiority, of possession, of dehumanization. It is a prelude to death. It echoes with the weight of centuries.
So when Karmelo reportedly reached for a knife and said, āTouch me and see what happens,ā that wasnāt aggression. That was trauma. That was a warning. That was a teenager trying to live.
That was Trayvon, Tamir, Mike, and so many others whispering through his fear: Donāt let them kill you too. It was the sound of centuries of survival instincts screaming through his bones. It was the impossible weight of being young, Black, and endangered in a country that only teaches you how to die quietly.
Because he knew, in that moment, that no one was coming to protect him. Not the coaches. Not the school administrators. Not the police. And not the justice system.
Karmelo didnāt want to end up like the other Black boys we make hashtags for.
Letās talk about this photo. The one of Austin Metcalf and his twin brother, posing in full camo, bodies postured like theyāre ready to make war on something or someone.
This is Trumpās America, where white men and boys are increasingly emboldened to assert dominance through intimidation and violence, and this photo speaks louder than words.
Just look at it. You can see it in their faces. The dead-eyed stares, the rigid posture, the tight grip on those weapons of war. You can feel the performance of power. These arenāt just kids posing for a picture. Theyāre modeling a certain kind of whiteness that's armed, unbothered, and entitled.
That posture says, āI dare you.ā Itās the physical embodiment of a culture that teaches white boys they can control who belongs and who doesnāt. Who stays and who gets pushed out. Who deserves safety, and who doesnāt.
That same energy showed up in those bleachers when Austin Metcalf tried to remove Karmelo from a tent he had every right to be under. That same entitled posture. That same unspoken belief that whiteness grants you the right to command space, bodies, and boundaries. That power was challenged when a Black boy didnāt bow or back down.
Because Karmelo didnāt fold. He protected himself. And now, heās being punished for surviving.
Ask yourself: what kind of environment breeds THAT kind of energy? What kind of parents are raising these kind of boys? What kind of town celebrates young white boys with weapons, while criminalizing Black boys with fears?
Do a quick Google search of Frisco ISD or the town itself. Youāll find a patternāracial slurs, exclusion, incidents brushed under the rug. The kind of place where whiteness feels untouchable and Black kids feel like targets. And thatās exactly what Karmelo was: a target. Not just of a bullyās fists, but of a larger, unspoken rule in America: White boys are allowed to assert power, and Black boys are punished for resisting it.
So when Karmelo cried in the back of that police car, when he asked if the boy heād stabbed would be okay, when he told the officers, āI was protecting myself,ā I believe him. That was the trembling honesty of a kid who didnāt want to die.
Ask yourself why a Black teenager felt the need to carry a knife on his person. What kind of white violence had he already survived to think that was necessary? What kind of silence surrounded the bullying?
How many times had he reported it and been ignored?
Weāll likely never get the full truth. But what we can do is stop demonizing the teen who lived. Stop pretending like the child who died was an angel. Stop expecting Black boys to be martyrs to make their trauma legible.
Karmelo Anthony didnāt want to be the next name on a t-shirt or the next hashtag. And in this America, sometimes the only way a Black boy gets to walk away is if he fights back.
Stacey Patton is an American journalist, writer, author, speaker, commentator, and college professor.
Patton has written for The Baltimore Sun, Al Jazeera, BBC America, The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Dallas Morning News, NewsOne and The Root.
