“I know now what I didn’t know then: black men are rarely honored on purpose. And if they are, their honor comes late—and rarely by anyone other than other black men or women.”
– Ashlee Eiland, Human(kind)
I see you, little boy.
Your feet are dangling over the stream at Big Spring Park. You watch your reflection. You stir the water with a stick you found, like all little boys do.
I don’t know your name.
But you are here and I see you.
Others are not here today.
And I see them. Vauntez. And Isaiah. And Kameron. You are little Black boys, too. You read me your sight words and tell me your stories and make me laugh out loud.
I see your faces and hear your voices and feel your hugs.
I also see my godson Chris and my co-volunteer Steve and my former Sunday school student Jeffrey. Once little boys, you’ve grown into young Black men. You’ve made it this far in America living in a Black body. You still breathe strong. You are smart and bold and powerful.
I see your faces and hear your voices and feel your hugs.
I also see Black men my age. Barrion and Nate and Rydel. You’ve accumulated years of experiences yet remain full of love and Jesus and compassion. You inspire me. You brighten the world with all you are.
I see your faces and hear your voices and feel your hugs.
And I see Black men a generation older. I see Mr. Ewing, my first Black principal when I am in 3rd grade at the beginning of school integration. Mr. Bradley, my unyielding yet tender Black principal in 12th grade. Mr. Turner, my friend and prayer partner in public housing battling cancer. I don’t know your backstories of living with racism for a lifetime. Could I handle it if I did?
I see your faces and hear your voices and feel your hugs.
To my brothers, this is personal. I honor you. I love you and I’ve been loved by you.
I say your names.
But . . .
- I don’t want to say your name in a hashtag, like #sayhisnamegeorgefloyd.
- I don’t want to see your face on a poster or on the news-of-the-day.
- I don’t want to watch your body on the ground with a knee on your neck.
I want to see you breathing. I want you here and alive and unharmed until God ushers you home on his time, not man’s time.
Your life matters to me.
To you, little boy with the stick in the water, I’m watching you. And watching out for you. You already understand too soon why everywhere here is shouting together.
I shout today alongside your daddy who brought you here:
“No justice, no peace. I can’t breathe. Black lives matter.”
You already get it more than I do.
But today I don’t talk to you. My mouth is covered with a mask. But my eyes are open.
I hope I see you a few years from now, too. Living your dreams. Laughing with friends. Loving your family.
You matter.
And I see you.
