Tuesday in D Minor

“Awwww my baaaaay-beh!! My baaaayyy-beh?! Git up, boy?! You cain’t die on me! Git up!”

I don’t know what was worse…. hearing Mama constantly screaming, or the fact that my baby bruh’ was lying in the middle of our living room in a pool of his own blood.

“Oowwwww!!!..................Ooowwww!!!” The noises were beyond disturbing, but the woman was in shock…overwhelmed. I expected her to let out a gut-wrenching howl of despair. But, as for me? I had to keep it together. I was the man of the house. I had to be the strong one. The stable one. There I was with childlike faith, staring hard out the window looking for the ambulance. For what, I don’t know? Jaquan was obviously dead. What good would an ambulance do now that he’d bled to death from multiple gunshot wounds? And what good was prayer gonna’ do now? But those old prayer warriors…good old sistas from the neighborhood were determined to gather around my squalling mother and pray.

From the front porch and back to the living room. To the edge of the driveway, peeking down the block, back to the living room window. Peering. Peeking. Hoping they would get through the street rioters and come and end this prayer visual that was forming in the living room. I wanted to cuss at those church sisters sooooo bad, but I knew better. I had to be a man. This wasn’t about me. I had to ‘man-up’. ‘Man-up’ for my Mama….with huh ol’ praying self. Praying to White Jesus to come take all of her troubles away.

If I wasn’t so close to finishing my law degree, I’d grab a gun and go out there and join the looting and rioting. It would feel good to go open fire on the gang members that drove by and gunned my baby brother down. He was gunned down for speaking against the gangs at the rally last night. I’d taught him to be smart and not so direct and combative with his messages, but he considered me to be a “sell-out”.

Now look at where his flippancy got him. This is so backwards. I’m sad and mad at him all at the same time. Sad that his life was taken, and mad that he didn’t listen to me. But, I’m smart enough not to act out of my emotions. A young black man has to really THINK in stressful times like these. When we go to bat for JUSTICE and fight in the FRONT LINE, we have to THINK. I always,….always told him to THINK!

All lives matter….just as long as they’re not black lives. Another senseless murder by a white cop against an unarmed teenage black kid had turned our once peaceful neighborhood into a warzone. Things weren’t perfect, but we were getting by. Getting by until the harsh reality of our melanated suntans was brought to surface again. Then starts the rioting and looting and a few gang members from across town came to participate in the rebellion and my kid brother, the 2016 Tubman High School student class president, gets carried away when he sees the news cameras. His message to the Motown Warriors came off as an arrogant insult and he paid for his zealous overtones with his life.

Our dad raised us to be activists. To ‘fight the power’. To get into politics and government. He had his eye on a spot on the City Council. But, now? I had my eye on the street for an ambulance to come and get his limp body from a bloodied hardwood floor.

It’s been an hour and forty-five minutes since we dialed 911 for an ambulance and here comes one Detroit police officer. Where’s the friggin’ ambulance? Then again, it’s too late, anyway. He’s long gone. I’m sure the officer could hear the noise and screaming from the yard, because he retreated back to his car and called for back-up. Now Mama and the White Jesus prayer warriors done shifted gears and started praying for Jaquan’s resurrection. Juuuussst great. This was not how my spring break from college was supposed to be.