The reality of being young, black — and innocent
First there was the hazy blur from the street light. Then the deliberate crash of the door slamming behind them. Before me stood my teenaged brother and cousin, appearing dazed and in deep thought, breathing laboriously.
Then there was the gaze. I immediately stood up, trying to read their eyes. They looked past me, but I knew something had occurred. And that something affected them to their core. Their silent, frenetic energy was reverberating through the room, suffocating any urge on my part to ask questions.
Finally, they told me: “Coming home ... cops pinned us to the ground. Frisked us,” said one.
“A brush fell out my pocket. They pulled guns,” said the other.
Then there was the anger.
They didn’t need to finish, but I attentively listened. The overwhelming hurt resulting from their violation was hard to observe. One snapped, “We could be dead,” punching his fist into his cupped hand. “A hair brush almost got us killed,” whispered the other, shaking his head.
Slowly I released the words planked beneath my tongue. “I’m … sorry,” I repeated. We stewed in our collective distress. We knew no one cared because we were young and we were black — and because we lived in Chester.
I was younger than my brother and cousin, but was already familiar with the sting of unchecked white authority and others who tried to exert control over me. As a brutha raised between Southwest Philly and Delco, I knew the critical stares of police officers, white and non-white, and fielded the hostility of teachers at the predominantly white schools I attended who were unnerved by my confidence.
Purveyors of this authoritarian power possess, knowingly or unconsciously, centuries-old racist notions that presume blacks are inherently violent and warrant restraint. Those beliefs justify preemptive aggression toward us – all while refusing us the full respect of human dignity.
My brother and cousin became part of the endless labyrinth of conflicts between black folk and law enforcement, including most recently Bontham Jean and Atatiana Jefferson, who were senselessly killed in their homes by police in Texas. Included also are Chester Township residents arrested for loitering on their own property, and a senior executive accosted by state troopers outside his luxury Glen Mills home.
James Baldwin once wrote, “I love America more than any other country in the world and, exactly for this reason, I insist on the right to criticize her perpetually.” He boldly questioned the unwieldy relationship between blacks and our great nation we helped create, demanding the equity it promised.
My cousin is a professional entertainer now. He told me, “I don’t recall a single detail from that night. I was so traumatized I think I blocked it all out.” Maybe it’s better that way.
My brother is an ordained minister at a Philadelphia
church and a counselor. He works with communities and police to support the well-being of young men. When I contacted him, he explained, “I’m conditioned to mentally freeze at the sight of flashing sirens and service weapons.”
What hurts him most is the destructive cycle came full circle: etched into his recent memory was “seeing my oldest sons’ faces through the review mirror as they were frisked by Cheltenham Police for a case of ‘mistaken identity.’” He relies on his faith to cope.
It should be duly noted that none of us has a criminal record. We respect police for the tremendous jobs they do. After all, our family members have bravely served in the military and as police officers. My Uncle Russ was the first black police superintendent in Darby Borough. He was my dude and seeing him in uniform made me proud. Even so, the racism he endured during his tenure and as he rose the ladder of command reaffirmed my ambivalence toward law enforcement.
Being black in America means you are always on alert. Still, you try your best to treat others with fairness and compassion that aren’t always reciprocated. As my brother intimated, trauma is difficult to articulate and carving out your peace can be unrelenting.
This summer, on a day off from work, I took my son on a walk through a place labeled “Everybody’s Hometown.” We were stopped by a patrolling police officer. He awkwardly asked, “What are you getting into?” It was a question filled with myriad shades of meaning.
In all fairness, his intentions could have been playful or benign. But his tone made me wonder, “Is he being friendly or sizing us up?” as we strolled midday along nicely remodeled homes.
Uncertain, I walked away, pulling my son closer to me. Jawanza Ali Keita is a communications executive. He is a Daily Times staff alum, former Division I athlete, and a graduate of Temple University, Wharton School of Business, and the Syracuse University Newhouse School of Public Communications.