Letter to a Young Brother

Some days pangs of guilt and shame sting me in such a way that it stops me. I lose my breath and my eyes swell. Even moments of complete joy lead me back to these dark places because the guilt returns with merciless vengeance.

I’ve never seen my sister as distraught as the day we buried our brother last summer. I suppose decorum and politeness vanish when you see a baby in a casket? My brother was no baby, but he was hers. And in many ways, he was mine.  And how fitting – the memory that returns to me most often is just that. In the midst of celebrating the freedom of having the house to ourselves, the unexpected happened.  An accident.  Arthur fell from the top bunk bed, head first into the carpet. The thud interrupted the sound of loud cackling laughter and the floor creaking underneath the carpet as we stomped around. Rather than rushing to aide him, my sister and I stood there stunned. A second later, he lifted his small body from the ground, a huge smile on his face, and returned to the ladder. No blood, no bruises, and no mention of it. Marie and I shared a quick glance of relief, and that was that. We continued our celebration.  

Perhaps I remember this most often because it once reassured me of my brother’s…perseverance? Strength? Or maybe it’s my failure to protect him, even then. Or maybe it’s because in this memory he’s a child; not a young black man navigating the perilous waters of a dying world. It’s a safe memory.

We grew up in Detroit, reared by two different mothers. And it’s safe to say that we took two completely different paths in our youth. In our respective worlds, choices were small. Survival was/is a complex play on identity and masks.

During his funeral family and friends spoke of gun violence, the leading cause of death of young black men. They discussed the pain and anguish of attending yet another funeral for a boy under twenty five.  The sadness of seeing another baby in casket.

I regret not walking to the podium and saying my truth. But I couldn’t take my eyes from my brother, knowing I would never see him again.  I remember fantasizing of someday making a place for myself and convincing him to move in with me. But this fantasy began five years before he died. In my mind he was still very much a baby boy, and safe. Not a young black man navigating the perilous waters of a dying world.

If I could talk to him, I would apologize for not warning him sooner.

Me: Brother, it’s all a trick. It’s conceit. It’s stolen the lives of many black men. I love you