The neighborhood kids grew up shooting baskets on the slab of cement by our garage. They gained inches—in height and in their verticals—over those six or seven years. It was easy to love them—and I did—from the get-go. Sometimes I stood by the chain-link fence, witnessing their game improve. I kept my exuberance to a minimum. I didn’t want to embarrass them in case they’d bolt. But my chest puffed with pride for those almost-kids-of-mine, and as I watched them play, sometimes my affection slipped out in words. Coolly, they eyed me back.
One day, the group—Keyondra, Antoine, Armani, Peanut, and Aisha, their ages spanning thirteen to sixteen years—clustered in our yard to ask me a question. It was an unusual occurrence, their coming that close to the house; their proximity to our back door said more than they did. I nibbled away a grin and sat on a lawn chair to talk with them. The girls plopped onto the grass next to me. The boys stood nearby. No one should pick favorites, but along with the three blondies I had birthed, these five were mine.
We chatted about life, school, and basketball. I wasn’t great at the game, but I knew a little something about the other two subjects.
Whatever they’ve seen of white people, God, make their brush with me good.
Husband came out of the house.
“What’s going on?” he beamed at our visiting kids. “Anything new?”
They invited him into their day too, Aisha bubbling between topics.
“What’s new with you?” she said back to him.
Husband patted the dog’s flanks. “I just got home from work.”
She plucked a blade of grass but kept her focus on him. “What do you do?”
“I’m a Federal Air Marshal.”
“What’s that?” She tossed aside the piece of grass.
“He’s a cop,” Keyondra said. “On airplanes.” I had forgotten she knew.
Aisha’s eyes went round. “A cop?”
Armani sprinted down our brick path, flew through the gate, skidded around the garage, and tore down the alley.
“What just happened?” I said, frowning at the boy’s sudden exit.
Keyondra shrugged. “He heard ‘cop’.”
The kids drifted home, but our basketball hoop was a magnet. Soon, they were sucked back and into a game—Armani too.
“Hey,” Husband said to the kid who had fled our yard earlier. “Why did you run?”
Armani shrugged, his gaze down.
“You’re welcome here,” my man said, his tone soft. “You don’t need to run, you know.”
But my heart deflated. Easy for us to say.
On the evening of Monday, May 25, 2020, at 38th Street and Chicago Avenue in Minneapolis, a white police officer kneed the life out of a black man, George Floyd, an image-bearer of God who lay handcuffed on the ground. Someone captured video footage for the world to see—and I wish I hadn’t.
The violence made me queasy, the injustice irate.
And God’s anger burned too.
Faces of my neighborhood family streaked through my mind. Could this happen to those kids of ours? Would this happen to them one day too?
Please, God, no!
In my mind, I flipped my life around to different angles to see it better. All I had done seemed like a whole lot of toos: too little, too late, too insignificant. My love? Definitely not enough to fix anything.
So, what could I do now?
Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves; ensure justice for those being crushed. Yes, speak up for the poor and helpless, and see that they get justice.
It wouldn’t be easy, but it was simple: I’d remember Mr. Floyd and our neighbor kids.
And I’d come up with something.
(This is just a free stock photo and in no way connected with Monday’s murder.)
*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.