Apologies. I had to interrupt Beatrice’s post to say something very important. To me.
Mr. Boy, my son, is a chef. He went to school for it. In less than two months, he’ll leave for the military. He scored exceedingly high on his military test. While I was in Taiwan, he made this decision. Though, before I left for Taiwan and he came back to live at home, he worked in Athens, GA at UGA. It’s a small but big college town. He had himself an apartment and roommates to make life easier. He and his roommates, who were all white, got along real fine and I liked them. In my eyes, they were all young men trying to make it in the world.
Mr. Boy’s a hardworking fella and has a knack for things mechanical and technology. He’s a news buff and likes to debate shit. He probably knows more about what’s happening in the world than I do. He’s a handsome fella, too. I have to say, me and his daddy made us some good-looking and smart younguns. This son of mine is just an all-around kinda guy ’cause well, he’s mine and his daddy’s child. We’re just kinda all-around folk ourselves. Though, I, folks, have a keen eye for shit and will call shit what it is and ain’t shy about telling you how bad it stank. But I, like other folk like myself, get so tired. You know, we get weary of the shit.
So, when my son totaled his second car, he had to learn some life lessons. He walked one half hour to the bus stop to work five days a week to get to that job. Did it for some months too. Got so, he started enjoying his walks. They gave him time to think and get healthy. He was breathing better. On some of those walks, we’d be talking on the phone. Before he moved to Athens, I told him that was no place for a young black man; the town was too small. And it was.
How many times he was stopped for walking to work by the police, I can’t even tell you, folks. Carrying a pen, ID and a cookbook in his backpack and bits of papers, like receipts and shit. He’d just hand it over to them. Receipts and crumbs in the bottom of the bag and all. Imagine my level of pissivity and worry when he’s stopped for the umpteenth time as I’m talking to him one morning. If you can imagine at all, folks. Umph, umph, umph…This is what happens to the Trayvon Martins in the world, folks. Real life shit, okay?