Sooo Here's The Thing

A collection of observational writings from a young Black American male.

[soooheresthething]

Simply Depression

I am depressed. Not from a singular incident. But, because I am me. I have my experiences. My regrets and failings that I have not forgiven myself for. Because I am a man. My masculinity is something I have not come to terms with as not being like other men’s. I am a feminist and sensitive and not inclined towards violence. I feel lonely and alone. Because I am an introvert. I'm charming but secluded because society has very little space for my social particularities. I, recently, narrowly avoided a panic attack because of the anxiety that brings. Because I am an artist. My career, while filled with talent, at 31, has not found me independent. I feel childish. Ridiculous even. Squashed by societal expectations and my own bars of achievement. Because I am black. I know that, is of very little value. At home and abroad. My flesh is invitation for negativity. My culture is farmed. My brother and sister livestock feed on the freshly sprouted grass the farmer mows, graze under his watchful eye, believe in his care, and make peace when he slaughters those he has watched, fed and protected because we have been Stockholmed into believing we couldn't exist without his farms. I want to cry. Often and hard. My eyes can't go there with me. They need to see whats next. I am repressed and depressed. Fighting both is not like fighting a monster or an urge. It's like fighting your right hand with your right fist. I am depressed. And that is honest and ok. I am not sad. Not pitiful. Just depressed. Just honest.

[soooheresthething]

A Romp on Masculinity

I'll make a few declarations at the onset of what I'm about to say. Masculinity is not a clearly defined word. What being masculine or being a man means in the States, is, qualitatively, light years away from what it means in everywhere else. In addition, rompers, as a fashion item worn by human beings that identify as male, is not new. Not by a long shot. Also, it's just clothing. On the sliding scale of dangerous, problematic, tsk-tsk worthy things that men take part in….I mean, damn, where do you start? And finally, I'm not trying to change minds. Trying to change a mind, is like an auto mechanic trying to fix a car over the phone. You can tell the mechanic what's wrong, what sounds the car is making, etc. But, unless someone gets under the hood manipulates wires, takes defective parts out, and replaces fluids, that car ain’t ever gonna run right. The response from men (and women) to men, wearing rompers is fascinating in its circuitous silliness. I almost can't get past the fact that the most effective title for the issue is, “men wearing rompers”, which sounds as Monty Python a skit as I could imagine. What’s bubbled up, is all manner of hateful, misogynistic, homophobic, ageist tweets and status updates. It’s astounding in its predictability. I've parsed through a number of opinions on the “men wearing rompers” controversy, and have seen women blasting men with the hot sands of misogyny. Where black people have Uncle Toms, I imagine the patriarchal equivalent for women, would be Auntie Tams. Being a willing participant, in furthering the chasm between men and women, in a society that's built on women as second class citizens, when you are a self-identified woman, is borderline lunacy. Even in as small an act, as regurgitating the bile men rocket at each other, in the efforts of creating binary gender roles and establishing dominance on societal playgrounds. I wonder if these women think it makes them more like men. If they, in the daze of subjugation, have convinced themselves that if you can't beat them, be them. Be just as simple, petty and fraudulent. Why fraud? We are mighty picky on when, where, how, why, and whom we allow to cross the lines. Prince, Bowie, Jimi, James, and Andre all dressed brazenly on the line. In suede and sequin and sheer. They are heroes. They are myths. They are immortal. They, also, are human, and man, and male, and musicians. Are the blouses, now, passè? Have leather jumpsuits been hijacked by gay and queer alike, and as such can only be associated with them? There lie, within this fallacy, a hypocrisy, as is usually the case. What I'm finding in these condemnations, stashed away behind the words, is fear. It's a marvelous thing, fear. When harmless affectations and dress styles, tear open the dread that your way of life is under attack. Your man code. Your gender roles and rules. Your generational identities. People don't so much as carry real disdain for these things, as they arm themselves with their terror for the misunderstood. For example, arachnophobes do not hate spiders. Definitively, phobias are irrational fears.  Arachnophobes fear spiders. They exclaim that they hate spiders in defense of their fear. What exacerbates, and, at times, is the impetus for this fear, is the misunderstanding that spiders cause death. When in fact, zoologically and factually speaking, very few spiders can even break skin, leave alone are venomous. Irrational fear disguised as common sense hate is an ideology that permeates throughout the fragile psyche of man in all arenas. Fearing the unknown seems like such a wasteful experience. Maybe there's a thrill I do not grasp. A kind of, Schrodinger’s cat appeal to the world. It feels exhausting. So rarely do the things we don't understand pose a real threat to our lives. Maybe we know the mundanity of life and need to create demons. Giving our lives purpose through a fictional dragon begging for a slaying. These perceived, if not delusional, devils, perennially create blockades for growth. There is nothing gained fighting a monster you manufactured. You set the limits of its power and the zest in its evil. You are unlikely to create a hurdle you can't leap in a single, unaffected bound. The real battle presented to you, is very often not around you. It's in you. It is not of your own creation. It is you Amusing as outrage, colored with machismo, over men wearing rompers may be, it's dangerously ignorant. Men in rompers or romper like outfits are old hat. A fashion trend going years back. Not far from overalls and jumpsuits. There is an current of misogyny just as strong as the current of homophobia. This idea of a “gay agenda” imposed on our youth. This is what tolerance looks like to those in small cages. Conspiracy. It should look like freedom.

[soooheresthething]

America in a Picked Frame

I know it's old hat, but I don't remember seeing much written on it and I had a thought about that, Seth-Rogen-stealing-Questlove's-afro-pick-and-framing-it thing. First: exactly how many picks does that man have? Questlove I mean. Second: as a metaphor, analogy or even a microcosm, I ain't really seen too much summing up America, better than that. From the black afro pick in an all white frame, to the mere notion of stealing, framing and displaying someone's belongings or belongings of their culture; it's as unintentional an emblem there could ever be. I love that theft, amongst the rich and famous, can get excused away as being a fan. Must be nice

[soooheresthething]

Missing

We're getting older. All of us. At the same pace and same steps. The time gradually close in front of us, as the memories identically dim behind is. All of that prose to say, I was talking to my brother Val earlier and realized: 1) I miss hanging out with Dj Val the Vandle and Dj Printz, lollygagging in the MMA cage that was the Scratch Academy or out front of the Roxy after a night of The Spliff activities, floating in the perceived deserved arrogance of our accomplishments. We were idealistic but almost perfectly unaware of how talented and adventurous we were. 2) I miss when MySpace mattered and was, essentially, a roided out Tumblr. 3) I miss bad cheap Costcos pizza 4) I miss being excited about music videos 5) I miss being excited about music 6) I miss thinking I was too young to care but still caring anyway 7) I miss Smack DVD battles on a sidewalk, as much as, while watching NBA commercials trying to convince me to watch the Bucks face off in an Eastern conference duel with the Nets 😒, I miss crossing my cousins over on a hoop with, I don't know, 8 gallons of water in the base? It was a lot of water. You just let the hose run till it bubbled out. 8) I miss pointlessly hanging out at Vals house. 9) I miss The Family 10) I miss my friends. A lot.

[soooheresthething]

Missing

We're getting older. All of us. At the same pace and same steps. The time gradually close in front of us, as the memories identically dim behind is. All of that prose to say, I was talking to my brother Val earlier and realized: 1) I miss hanging out with Dj Val the Vandle and Dj Printz, lollygagging in the MMA cage that was the Scratch Academy or out front of the Roxy after a night of The Spliff activities, floating in the perceived deserved arrogance of our accomplishments. We were idealistic but almost perfectly unaware of how talented and adventurous we were. 2) I miss when MySpace mattered and was, essentially, a roided out Tumblr. 3) I miss bad cheap Costcos pizza 4) I miss being excited about music videos 5) I miss being excited about music 6) I miss thinking I was too young to care but still caring anyway 7) I miss Smack DVD battles on a sidewalk, as much as, while watching NBA commercials trying to convince me to watch the Bucks face off in an Eastern conference duel with the Nets 😒, I miss crossing my cousins over on a hoop with, I don't know, 8 gallons of water in the base? It was a lot of water. You just let the hose run till it bubbled out. 8) I miss pointlessly hanging out at Vals house. 9) I miss The Family 10) I miss my friends. A lot.

[soooheresthething]

"Consider the Source: A Brief 'Eulogy' of Chuck Berry" Listen, one of the saddest aspects of Chuck Berry’s passing is that the long, depressing road to equality in music, felt heavily by artists like him, seems to, somewhat, be lost as it recedes into the tide of history. Even at this stage in music history and knowing his accomplishments we still contextualize his career with a person that was less his equal and more his nemesis. In dress, singing style, and performance technique, Elvis Presley was the Carlos Mencia of musical acts. A phenom more than a pioneer. The artist he arguably pilfered from most? Charles Edward Anderson Berry aka Chuck Berry. From the Chitlin Circuit to black church, Elvis was a pick pocketing bandit for most of his career. Zooming out further, Bo Diddley rarely, if ever, comes up in these talks, despite, basically inventing the genre, while setting the foundation for R&B, with his chord progressions and beat signatures. Little Richard beget the flamboyance of bands like Aerosmith, The Rolling Stones, Queen and, hell, ALL of hair metal. This is in addition too, in his early years, being the mold for acts like Jerry Lee Lewis, who, while growing up in Texas, would have almost certainly seen the passing storm, that is Little Richard, on the Chitlin Circuit. Once again, from “tha roota to da toota”, style stolen. This is not forgetting other brick layers of the game like Fats Domino, Ike Turner, and Sister Rosetta Tharpe. To properly eulogize Chuck Berry, we have to acknowledge how his dreams likely died, when Elvis’ were realized. And furthermore how common that was. We must do a better job of giving proper credit WHERE it is due, WHEN it is due. Despite having to mention his name to make this point, I DON'T WANT TO HEAR ABOUT NO DAMN ELVIS PRESLEY!

[soooheresthething]

An Essay on Learning to Be a Better Human

By B W Banks

In the broadest reach of the day’s sunlight and heat, I saw skis in a homeless person’s shopping cart. A dangerous spectacle to be distracted by while driving down the bustling streets near Macarthur Park in Los Angeles, CA. South LA has no shortage of disenfranchised and displaced transients. Many have gone west, with pixie dusted dreams of fame and fortune. Many of those, find themselves huddled around rusted gates at the Greyhound station or the stale lights and cold floors near a Red Line Train stop. But even as I’ve been reared accustomed to seeing poverty, this person shook me. Skis? In Koreatown?!

For the most part, as a species, we’ve been anesthetized to suffering. It’s a sunrise, a noon peak, and a sunset. It’s a gum stain on the sidewalk. It’s commonplace. However, I like to consider myself empathetic and aware. Still, all of my compassion, education, and experience could not shield me from the startling site of skis in a Vons basket, in an area that likely has not seen snow since the last mass extinction. I never saw a person attached to what seemed like an endless train of carts, blankets, and pawn shop knick knacks. For some reason, I wanted a face. I wanted a character to give persona to the junk. Why? To feel pity? To feel superior? As some sort of tacit recognition of my privilege? I thought later that the WHO it was, did not as much matter as the WHY it was. What difference would be made if I was reassured that, yes, this was a human, with a high probability that there is skin of some hue, maybe some reproductive organs, etc etc? Of greater import, was the circumstance, both socially and morally, that set about this human being existing in such a way.

For some, the homeless are ignorable consequences of adulthood. They are those who couldn’t find a strong fin in the washing tide of everyday life. And so, we don’t consider how helpless even a fish might be in some waters. Societally, we conveniently do not propose, to ourselves, that these people were once children. That, presumably, they once gleefully cheered sliding down a slide into an adults waiting grasp. They may have suckled from a breast, felt love, felt fear, felt admiration from and for someone. Some of them were blessed to have a family or even a high school crush. With, even those, in some cases, the signs were there for mental illness. For others, abuse. The thing is, we know too much now. I, personally, have seen some, not so old as to have slipped out of the grace of a more educated us. Chronologically speaking, just kids. Kids, long ago abandoned by those who swore they couldn’t. A society that said it shouldn’t. A government that said it wouldn’t. Yet here we are.

What then of charity? Just about, whenever I’ve seen it performed, its donated with short term currency. People often pay for the guilt of privilege with money. The more effective offering is time. Cash and coin are trivial, fluctuating forms of attention. Think about the care of a fleeting parent. Gifting a child, languishing for attention, with presents and distance. The gift is swell, but the child will very soon grow weary of it, as children do. Yet, the time that parent took the child to an outing, is long lasting and life affirming. Could conversation be more life changing than a check? Well, not immediately. And, talking to someone with a mental illness is not as easy as forking over your spare dollar. But, if we are to treat that as sacrifice, we’d invalidate the meaning of the word. By definition sparing anything is not sacrificial. Spare suggests a surplus. Your time and commitment is, subjectively, not in large supply. Giving it to somebody who needs it much more than you, is unequivocally sacrifice.

The effort to be a better human is not light and I make no claims to profess in it. Still, in examination of oneself, you might find, what you feel, is a universal truth. Observing our current social ecosystem as it catapults towards a life lived at light speed, I’m finding that time is rapidly becoming a more and more precious commodity. If we are unwilling to donate it to our entertainment, what could be left for our empathy? Hell, I don’t know. I’m still unsure how to approach a man with skis on the sidewalk.

From the “Faces of Venice” photo series by Soft Fruit Group

Photography: @bwbanksphotography Creative: @bebeautifulla Production: @itssoftfruit

[soooheresthething]

Losing Lopez by B W Banks

What's hugely, and almost summarily, offensive about George Lopez's beratting of the woman who, yes, indeed, did heckle him, is how wildly unfunny it was. Not merely because of the stinging racial overtones. Not merely because of the utterly humiliating and disrespectful way in which he spoke to the, live, in the flesh, representation of the butt of his joke. Not merely because he incited a mobb of likely all Mexican patrons to cheer on blatant bigotry. It was unfunny because George Lopez is just NOT funny. He's lowest common denominator funny. He's most of Comedy Central Presents' history for white people. Most of Comic Views' history for black people. His comedy is a caricature sketch of Mexican life. It feeds on stereotypes and linear thinking about race. Comedians are afforded the unique position to speak on race in a way that does not get met with scorn and violence. But, they have to make a statement. What was the statement George Lopez made? Apparently, judging from his "joke" and the crowds response, that Mexicans dislike black people with the same zeal as disliking someone invading their territory. Comedy, about a sensitive topic, has to concurrently entertain, enlighten and educate. That's when it's good. That's when it isn't offensive but eye opening. He did none of that. Here's the clip of what happened https://www.youtube.com/shared?ci=Lc44ImG8EZk

[soooheresthething]

"Pain Wants Vengeance" by B W Banks

The officer who murdered Walter Scott got off. I mean, for all intents and purposes, he got off. It reminded me of a story my girlfriend once told me about pulling up to a shopping center to go to Yogurtland and having an encounter with the police. Certainly, she did nothing wrong. They were asking questions about something completely unrelated to her. They stopped the car abruptly, investigated aggressively, and terrified her resoundingly. She trembled. Innocent as a newborn, she trembled. This brief encounter gave her the shakes the same way as the night she had guns drawn on her by gang members after leaving the club. Read that sentence one more time. Ok. Let’s continue.

Her moment is a microcosm for black life in America. The abject fear African Americans live with, even under the narrow canopy of innocence, is palpable. My girlfriend explained a fear still strange to her. The same fear that led Walter Scott to flee for his life, wherein, as we see, he fled to his death. Bullets sliced through Walter’s back and killed him. The murderer? Lt. Michael T. Slager. Those bullets, rippled through the air, rippled through a human body, through a family and by extension a community. Walter’s mother wept knowing 2 things for certain: she would never see her son again and never see his murderer brought to justice. Recently, even as jurors were one vote away from a guilty verdict, the judge declared a mistrial. Now, considering the prosecution is seeking a second trial with a mountain of evidence, not excluding Slagers own police force firing him which is not at all normal, there is a real chance for some sort of recompense. However, think of the myriad of cases where that’s not an option.

You see, pain wants vengeance. Or at the very least justice. Very often, it is left wanting. Those saddled with it’s weight, left pining. White society asking them to forgive and be reasonable. Pain doesn’t work that way. Pain. Wants. Vengeance. Presumably achieved through the Judicial branch of our government working effectively in spite of its own self righteousness. America, tends to blot out the simplicity of civility with the abstraction of law. Civilians, often lower/middle class, are horrifyingly taken from this earth by civil servants charged with “protecting and serving” even them. Yes, THEM.

I recall my infant days in cycling, riding my BMX bike on the sidewalk of Hollywood blvd. A siren yelps out, an officer signals me and, without prompt, I get off my bike and let fall to the ground so its not perceived as a weapon. Yeah, it gets like that. In an embarrassing and somewhat showy way, the officer exits his squad car, slowly moseys around the hood, hands on his potentially deadly utility belt, and like some sort of cheesy cowboy asks “probation or parole?” None of those eye rolling platitudes about you knowing why you were pulled over or where you were headed. No lube. Just raw and abrasive. After the initial embarrassment, I thought, “damn I could die right now. I could be as pleasant as I would be to a senior citizen or a child, and I could still get dropped because of ‘one wrong move’.” My actual infraction? Riding on the sidewalk. Can’t do that at certain speeds. That’s it. I got my warning and walked my bike, gyrating from my quaking muscles all tense with fear, to the bus stop a block away. I fearfully and indignantly waited for the next bus, since I had now missed the one I was trying to catch and they ran only every hour at that time of night.

About 6 or 7 years have passed since then and I can’t help but internalize incidents like Walter Scott’s or Philando Castile’s or Oscar Grant’s, as nothing short of a miracle that I’m typing this right now. I keep thinking, if that had been me, would my mother feel the often flirtatious but seldom committal comforts of justice, as she mourned my descending casket; or would her pain go on wanting?

[soooheresthething]

"We're Not Really Strangers: A Somewhat Objective Point of View" by B W Banks

I’m an introvert. Card carrying, socially claustrophobic, Big Sean “I.D.F.W.U.” style introvert. I CAN play with the other kids in the sandbox, but, very often, I’d just opt for my own sandbox. Long before hashtags and wifi passwords made the entire world one click away, the universe had the knack of constantly reminding you that this earth, yeah, not your own private little sandbox. My reminder came in a game.

In playing We’re Not Really Strangers you likely walk away with three observations: 1. You read very simple questions much more clumsily on camera than anywhere else. 2. Just because you find that you’re not strangers, doesn’t mean you find a best friend, trust me. And 3. You realize just how easy it is to not be a strangers in the first place. Getting to know someone can have such imposing and emotionally charged connotations when, sometimes, it could easily be achieved with a simple “hey, how’s it going?” Granted not the easiest thing on camera. There’s nothing like being in the frying pan of filming your first time playing the game. Having 3 cameras, each weighing as much as a small child, pinned on you with the focus of a predator in the jungle, lavalier mics running up the small of your back, around your belly, and up to your neck like a FBI informant, while having to remember whose turn it is, can be a bit, ummm, tricky. But what really threw me is watching the frying pan work.

When Koreen asked me to help out on set, taking behind the scenes photos and videos, I was washed with bittersweet feelings. On one hand, I believe in the game and its intent, and was happy to provide my services to aid in its growth. On the other, folks were talking about Donald Trump and I wanted in. See, the beauty of the game shows itself best in those conversations. I had to be an objective viewer to get that. The President elect is a lightning rod. I expect fireworks whenever people discuss him. Even if they agree. Or like in the case of Brian and Mahan where they staunchly disagree.

Mahan, who is born and raised a Los Angelino, ethnically Iranian and strident in his disdain for Trump and Trump supporters, was confronted with a man, in Brian, who held none of Mahan’s preconceived ideas about what and who a Trump supporter was. Brian was nice. Downright likeable. He was idealistic, charismatic, non-confrontational, and open. Mahan had seen all Trump supporters as a plague on human progress. He expected that if he encountered one, that person would likely be racist, xenophobic, homophobic, islamophobic and misogynistic or some combination of the lot. When he took off his blindfold and witnessed Brian, shoulders to boulder in denim, splattered with American flag patterns, an eagle patch, a USA pin, and a “Make America Great Again” wristband, Mahan had to think, “ding ding ding.”

I told Brian off camera that he confronts even MY sensibilities. He looked like Dixie to me. When videos pop up on my timeline of Neo-Nazis and white supremacists and KKK members, rallying, celebrating Donald Trump’s election, there’s always at least 3 or 4 people dressed exactly like Brian. He thought that was sad. As plainly as that’s stated, it is. Its sad that the look of nationalism accompanies the sound of hate. But Brian wasn’t that. Hell his denim vest, all starred and striped, was his own piece, specially stitched for Jay-z’s 2014 Made in America Tour. Brian just loves his country. Mahan fears it. Mahan’s father is jewish but his mother is Muslim. He’s terrified for her, as well he should be. This country has shown post September 11th, 2001, that we are perfectly willing to dehumanize and brutalize anyone who worships the way Mahan’s mother does. I asked Mahan, after filming, if meeting Brian and seeing a man so kind and humble, who voted for President Obama the 2 terms prior, made him feel that our road to unilateral peace was made easier or harder. He said “much harder.” See for Mahan and I, Brian makes the enemy of our sensibilities faceless. Brian could have arrived wrapped in nothing but an American flag with a bazooka in his hand and he would’ve been less threatening looking to us. I’m a 31 year old black male born and raised in LA. I’ve been profiled and harassed by police, I’ve been called a nigger, and America never feels cozy for me. At 6 years old, Mahan was asked by classmate, post 9/11, “why do your people hate my people.” Mahan had been called a terrorist and America never feels cozy to him either. They bickered and argued and tried not to derail from actually playing the game. Somehow, through the pain and bridled tears, they hugged and created a secret handshake.

What floored me, through a day of filming 6 different people and 3 different games, is watching the vitriol of disagreement, fueled by fear and misunderstanding, melt away at the admission of failing to get pregnant with your partner for a year and starting to feel the weight of your age because of it. Or being bullied. Or having body image issues. Addiction. Family turmoil. The bleak yet oh so normal reality of our lives being commiserated on by 2 strangers with dueling political opinions. Its akin to the Hatfields and Mccoys putting their muskets down for an Easter Sunday dinner. The idea that there are things bigger than our squabbles, and maybe the best way to find common ground in a disagreement is to first see the common ground in our humanity.

[soooheresthething]

"Different Shades of Black" by B W Banks

Friday, September 30th, 2016 I put on my…. Instagram snap? Instasnap? Snapagram? Idk. Anyway, I put a story up about how my girlfriend and I went into Pasadena so I could document the Black Lives Matter’s march over the murder of Reginald “JR” Thomas. I’m all for outrage and protest but first, I need facts. When we pulled up, the scene closely resembled a scene out of “ATL” where all the locals congregate at the common hang out spot. Inner city’s tend to create very familial ecosystems. As music blared from portable speakers and Camarro subwoofers, black folks commiserated over inebriants and a collective amusement at the spectacle of all the protesters, signs, and candlelight vigils.

See, Reginald Thomas was from PDL (Pasadena Denver Lanes) and this was their turf. As most locals in small neighborhoods tend to be, he was widely known. One of those locals, familiar with him, approached my girlfriend and I. He was dressed in all red. Head to toe. 51 years young with tattoos of hood signs and years of buried pain on his face. I either called him OG or big homie out of respect. I grew up in Inglewood and the West Adams district and I’ve known gang members my whole life. Especially Bloods. I knew I was talking to a man that has seen things the good Lord has favored me not to. He jokingly approached asking about my picture taking. Apparently I was snapping photos of his “fat bitch.” Most may recoil at that terminology, but, round those parts and parts like it, those are terms of deep affection. Wild, I know. I opened up dialogue about how they’re trying to take us out 1 by 1 and that my girl and I came to document what was going on. He agreed but followed it with a scoff. Sure, the system is wrong, but, by the OG’s perspective, JR kind of put himself there.

“He was off that sherm, man.” the OG said, single handedly, gripping tight, to half empty bottles of Crown Royal and Crystal Geyser.

He explained that all these folks, with their signs, didn’t know the full story. That JR wasn’t an angel. After wildly swinging a fire extinguisher and wielding a knife that the OG called a “machete”, JR’s baby’s momma called the police on him. He tells it that JR closed the door on the cops and brought the fight to them. I soaked up the info, gave him a Blood shake, and said peace.

To our right was a group of young, black kids who were definitely “woke” and definitely not from these parts. I figured I’d talk to them and get their take. Unsurprisingly, it was not the same as the OG’s. I spoke with a young lady who stood, dressed in all black, with a look that bounced from welcoming to withered with every word. I politely asked for input, of any kind, on what exactly happened. Her recounting sounded almost lifted from a pamphlet. Structured and coated with displeasure at the fact that once again a black man was murdered by the police and she once again had to tell the story. She seemed tired. Fear and rage are exhausting emotions. She initially acquiesced to the locals expertise on the matter, but stated that JR was mentally ill, the police knew that, yet they killed him and left him for dead in front of his children. The intolerable presence of a rotting corpse haunting a family in their safe space. Needless to say, her view was very sympathetic towards Reginald. But, when I recounted the OG’s take, she didn’t exactly take to it well. She bristled at the notion a machete was present. I’m still not sure if she disagrees with a knife being present at all. She stared, unaffected, at the suggestion that JR brought a fight to the police with hard drugs fueling him. I thanked her for her insight and said peace. I snapped a few more pics and left.

I have a number of takeaways. A conversation on mental illness in the black community is always necessary. What constitutes mental illness? Do we consider drug abuse a mental illness? Bearing in mind I’m speaking specifically to the black community’s usual lack of consideration for these glaring problems. Or how to reconcile the differences in backgrounds amongst black folks, to find common accord, when protesting against or advocating for. The differences in gender, sexuality, religion, culture, etc.  But the question that sticks out most for me is: how to have the dual, and often dueling, conversations about the appropriation of blame in these circumstances. No two instances are alike. Some people encounter the police, innocent as the day they were born, and are murdered like convicted criminals sent to the firing squad. Some people, on the other hand, do bad things, that require intervention. The police, very often ill equipped to diffuse hostile situations, then rush in, overreact, and use excessive and violent force. When it is the latter, I urge for nuance. Not to recuse civil servants, sworn to protect and serve us civilians, from a punishment fitting their crimes. Not to keep judges free and clear of real moral responsibility, by reflexively moving the hand that pounds the gavel for the judicial system . Nope. It’s so that when we have these tragedies drop on us like bending barbells reaching their max, we have perspective on what role police actually play.