Today is amongst the most difficult days for me as an African, Black, Conscious, learned and living in America. It is one of the few days I would hope to disappear for 24 hours and unplug from social media to the extent that my absence would block or erase any memories of the International Son Day Celebration.
I see a lot of wonderful Black young men with their families on this day and I am conflicted. I am not sure that I can pretend long enough to forget that we are living in a country still wrestling with the aftermath of a long period of hate that somehow refuses to go away. At least that is what the nationally held belief is. But the reality is more grim than most are willing to admit or at the very least acknowledge.
The outcome is a national malaise and contagion of forgetfulness that results in an insidious slumber.
Yet every so often, one of those promising young boys becomes a sacrificial lamb to remind us of the national slumber under whose gaze we thrive. The Black Son knows no celebrations except a conditional one. In addition to the onslaught of poor diet, the Black son has other serious historical changes that refuses to abate.
This is not a thesis but a lived experience from my past alterations with the police. I went to jail intentionally. I stood up for my right and paid homage to all the education I have received, both formal and otherwise.
When the police tried to deny my right, I immediately figured that he was falling for my trap. I live a simple life and dress the part to fully understand the life of Blackness in America.
So the Raleigh police officer tried to intimidate me by giving me an unlawful order. You see a white lady had absconded with my cab fare. When I saw her again, I refused to give her a ride until she paid for the previous fare. She gave me part of the money she owed and I left. She called the cop and claimed I stole ten dollars from her. When the cop called me and asked me to meet him, I requested that we meet at the office so that he could verify that the lady had a record of habitually lying to African cab drivers. I was smart enough to know the weight of my words against a white woman. History is replete with such contests between Black men and White women, real or fictitious. The time was nigh and I was glad to take the bullet. So I refused to meet the cop anywhere else but at the office. I knew exactly what I was getting myself into. I called my brother and the owner of the cab company and told them that if they don’t hear from me in half an hour, they know where to find me.
Wisdom is a bitch. As I had predicted, the cop arrested me for having stood up against an injustice. The cop told me that he chose to believe the white thief because she was crying too much to be lying. That the office was right where the cop and I were, and the white thief was in the comfort of her apartment over ten miles away, it didn’t matter. My dear cop chose to use the old script when exercising his policing duties over Blackness. Jail was my fate.
I ended up having to be bailed out at a big cost and spending hours at the cell. I followed up with more work by going to court three times. The thief never showed up even once.
You can tally up the cost. Bitcoin was a few cents then. Those are costs that my son now will have to bear.
Yet, I did what I did for him and other Black boys. It was a small price to pay. His grandparents did it before me. They all took an oath to fight for justice. My son and I are products of the oath and no police can alter that. Not even the pain of death. Any price is fair for those who are possessed by liberty. That oath is our Big Colossus holding the torch in our heart.
That is his heritage. Now I can ask him to help harvest some Sunchokes, fresh Basil, Holy Basil, Chives, Parsley and Oregano from the backyard garden and cook some healthy food as a way of promoting justice in the only field he and I have absolute control of, food. I prepared a dish with Saffron, the most expensive spice for a reason. He knows the color of Saffron, its price, those are easy to tally. But the most important price for him to know is his own price, which is no price. At such a price, he has neither the excuse nor the luxury of keeping his eyes on the prize. The odds are against him and he and I have to have his back. I did once and I will do it again forever. He too has to toe that line of justice. That is how we rock. I celebrate my son every day and hope that others can find the courage to do the same. I am speaking from experience. I am speaking about my own personal experiences of life worship. Injustice, complacency and dishonesty is the recipe of death-worship. Nowhere is that case more blatant than in the act of consuming food that causes and supports early death. Celebrate by feeding your son life today and every single one except those days that you view him with the same spirit of the evil cop. For once fall in love with a healthy Black face forever. The only way to do so is to love life-worship. That is an internal force and a force to reckon with. I reckon you will internally celebrate the magic that is Black son.