As we talked about the last few days, dark days, a total of seven lives lost, I found myself feeling envious of my colleague. I appreciated his bravery and willingness to discuss these events with me, but some small part of me resented what I took to be an aloof distance he was able to maintain in our conversation.
As I assessed myself, I realized that there was much in our conversation that I simply was not saying.
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We were engaged in this together. He, 40ish and White. Me, late 30ish, and Black. Him, Southern. Me, a Yankee. We could not be more different in background, but here we were, two fathers of young children, discussing what appeared to us initially, to be senseless killing. Greater still, our children had become aware of these events in ways that we, as fathers, could not simply blow off. Each of us needed some answer.
We went through some of the difficult motions. He indicated that he empathized, felt powerless, could not understand the pain my community was in, how could this happen again? He wondered aloud at my feelings about the officers who had been killed in Dallas? We covered these points, and yet, envy. Jealousy. And even anger, as the conversation wore.
I asked for a break, so I could effectively process my emotions. Figure out what I was actually feeling. I could not shake that it was envy. As I assessed myself, I realized that there was much in our conversation that I simply was not saying. Much that I didn’t feel entitled to say, based on prior conversations we had had about matters like this.
It had started to wear on me, that he, and many in his community, in our nation’s family, could simply temper a life and death conversation, redirect it, censor it, simply by identifying their anxiety and discomfort around the topic.
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See, I had come to realize that he, as a White father of White children, had not only the social and racial privilege of dismissing any concern about his son’s interaction with authorities, but as a White person, he enjoyed the privilege of centering this most difficult conversation around his emotions. It had started to wear on me, that he, and many in his community, in our nation’s family, could simply temper a life and death conversation, redirect it, censor it, simply by identifying their anxiety and discomfort around the topic. It felt as if, for the umpteenth time, a White man, a White father and husband and friend, was going to place his emotions above the deaths of Black sons, and fathers, and husbands and friends. It felt to me, a betrayal.
It began to feel as if our friendship, one that had developed around our love for our children and shared role of fatherhood, was merely one of convenience. There was no way for him to fully appreciate the fears that I wake up with each day. Hoping that I am not the next victim of an overzealous police officer, and he could never fully appreciate the crushing anxiety I feel each day as I try to come up with ways to effectively coach my son for interactions with peacekeepers, with a gameplan that will hopefully save his life.
He could not fully appreciate how I, and Black fathers exactly like me, looked on in disbelief, as the national rhetoric turned to “we must have dialogue, we must come together, we must be one” after those unfortunate deaths in Dallas, when no such proclamations had been made widespread after the deaths of Black men in Baton Rouge, and Minnesota and North Charleston, and New York, and Ohio and Detroit and on and on. Countless opportunities, but no such grand gestures of cooperative dialogue and kinship offered after the deaths, flagrant killing deaths, of so many Black sons.
I resented the privileges afforded him, and the relief I believed it offered him. I was on the verge of shutting down. I wondered aloud, why wouldn’t he do more? Why wouldn’t he do more to protect my son, who he so readily spoke with me about.
I wrestled with how to proceed. I struggled. Considered ending our friendship. Avoiding him altogether for a time.
That in the midst of grieving more lost sons, we were once again being called to the table to offer words of understanding and forgiveness.
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Where I eventually ended up was where we had started. Endeavoring to take one another’s perspective, all those months ago. I looked clearly at him, and considered what needed to know of me as a father, in this moment. This overwhelming, frightening moment.
I determined that he needed to know my fears. He needed to know the feelings of powerlessness and helplessness that come with worry about what may come to a Black son of a Black father. He needed to know that, though I am an individual that believes that things will typically ultimately be alright, I could not say that here. I had to educate him about the rage I felt every someone would offer “All Lives Matter” as a counter to “Black Lives Matter”, when I looked up and around and saw the damage being done to my community.
I had to ask him to simply listen for a time. To hear that the full human spectrum of emotion was not being allowed for my community. That in the midst of grieving more lost sons, we were once again being called to the table to offer words of understanding and forgiveness. We were being summoned to once again be our full magic selves and assuage the guilt that many in his community feel for not being more present and empathetic and vigilant about teaching out the hate and fear that our peacekeepers arm themselves with.
This was not an easy conversation.
There were moments where he was verging on becoming emotionally reactive. He wanted to defend himself. I asked him to simply listen.
I wanted him to know that, as fathers, and as men, and as friends, we could not solve these things alone or together, and not immediately. I asked him to only continue to take my perspective and I offered the same.
I asked him to help me process my emotions in these most difficult of times and we agreed to have these difficult talks with our sons. Together, some day, if needed. It was the best we could offer in this chilling set of moments.
It occurred to me that maybe that it is a small, not insignificant kind f solution. Begin the dialogue with one another. As hard as it may be. Both those with and without privilege. Fathers tasking other fathers with doing their portion of the work to prepare a better generation, and working with one another to be better stewards of our children’s minds.
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