FEAR
“Black boys die in silence. It was better to die with fear in your heart than tell the world you were scared and wanted to be saved.”
A few weeks ago, I was headed to church on Sunday morning and stopped by a gas station to grab an orange juice. The air was cool and foggy, and the sun was hidden, but it was still bright out. This stop had become routine because the store was a 5-minute walk from Cornerstone. It was the BP at the corner of Ralph David Abernathy and Longhorn St. Besides, if I was already running late, I figured 5 more minutes of pacing through the store wouldn’t hurt much.
It sat on a broad, busy intersection. Usually, I’d see an older brother standing outside near an ice machine with his hands hidden in the pockets of a black bubble jacket with a black beanie. He’d look at the cars arriving with an impassive face and never said much or asked for me anything. He’d just make eye contact and nod.
I saw the man out front when I parked that day. He glanced through my windshield with a fixed face and slowly tilted his head down. Today, I would offer him change, even if he didn’t ask. In my car, I always keep spare coins to give away or spend to avoid breaking big bills. I surveyed the parking lot before opening my door.
My foot rested out of my car as I reached over to scrape up $2 in quarters from a gold box, and in the distance, whistling through my left ear, I heard yelling. “Yoo! Youngin! Yoo.” I glanced up at the man in front of my car, noticed he was gone, and turned to the left in the direction of the yelling.
There was a tall, slim, dark-skinned man approaching my car, shifting from jogging to walking, with his hands in the front pockets of his black hoodie. He only yelled, “Yoo!” while closing the distance between us like anything he had to say had to be said up close. The parking lot was empty. As he approached, my heartbeat was the only sound I remember.
I rarely fear strangers approaching my car; I didn’t this day. Besides, paranoia could fog my judgment just as much as naivety. Who I consider Satan’s soldier could very much be a trail angel. Paranoia hinders my interactions and blurs clarity, so I leave it behind. But for some reason, my anxiety overrode my desire to disarm this man and see him harmless before he approached me– there was a flash of fear that froze my blood.
When he reached my car, he asked a three-word question that evoked nostalgia with fear tethered to it. There was no longer a 28-year-old man in that car, but the 14-year-old boy from my past was now present. I keep a switchblade, but no gun, near my steering wheel. Guns gave me anxiety. And I had no beef, nor have I ever. I never wanted to have to pull a gun on someone or want it to be an option to impose violence. All I had at this moment was my judgment and the wisdom life handed me.
There was a stiffness in my voice when I tried to speak as my words bumped into one another; I reluctantly answered his question. It reminded me of when I would walk to school or home from basketball games.
I was gripped by the fear I experienced when I knew someone had every reason to play as rough as they wanted to with me. Or when I caught the city bus to football practice in high school and carried a water jug while wearing a cut-up shirt, intentionally, hoping all the guys in the neighborhood saw me as a symbol of hope because I was doing the right things and leave me alone. But here, none of that matters. Nobody gives a fuck what you have going on if you have what they want. Seminary couldn’t save me– even if I offered the information, hoping he would leave me alone.
I was met by the fear and resentment of coming from a family that I realized had very little stability because we moved around too much– I had no home as a child, no hood to claim. So when someone asked, “Where you from?” I couldn’t claim my parent’s hood; I had no place to reference, and if I did, it better have been the right one. Your answer was your mouthpiece for protection, your hall pass. And if you answered wrong, any fist to the mouth, body slam, name-calling, or being advised to “get from round here” was justified.
The man asked me where I was from, and I knew I was from Florida, but the desire to stand firm in this moment burst through my reply. “Why?” I responded without thinking. He smiled and rephrased his question but in a more combative way. “Man, you from round here?” My face tightened up as any expression it carried left. I replied, “What’s up?”
I sensed when he felt my facial muscles and shoulders tense in my responses. I’m unsure what I was preparing myself for, but I cycled between fear and fearlessness, fighting for their place in the conversation. “Man, I saw your tag said Florida. It must be God cause you like the fourth person from Florida I met. Where you from?”
The third time he asked the question, it relieved me. It felt like an invitation to come home rather than a warning to leave. I was no longer disoriented, and my words gave each other room. I gave him a warm smile, stuck my hand out, and told him Tampa. His earnest grin revealed a mouth full of dull gold teeth. He’d probably had them for years.
As I stepped out of my car, he backed up, softened his posture, and told me he was from Fort Lauderdale. “Look big brah; I’m just out here tryna make things happen, man. You got like $10 I can hold?” “Big Brah” was a term used when someone had something you needed; it established the roles in interpersonal relationships before asking a favor. But I'm sure he was older than me in years and experience. No matter the years between us, the assumed distance between our pockets always made me big brah to homeless men.
I slowly paced toward the store entrance as he talked, looking down and listening intently. I saw the man usually standing out front. This time, he spoke. “Pete, what up baby.” They knew each other. “$10 is all you need?” I reiterated. “Man, that’s it. Or whatever you can do.”
I sauntered from aisle to aisle before grabbing a drink and leaving. The man at the register glanced at the $20 I handed him for a $2 drink, then cut his eyes to the man outside as if he knew who the change was for. When I walked out, I handed him the money, and he extended his fist and told me to stay safe. Sitting down, I pulled out the comportment containing my switchblade and looked around. I tried to replay the emotions I felt and laughed to myself because of how uneasy I remembered feeling.
A few weeks ago, an older man ran up to my car while I was outside the gas station, and what I thought was an attempt to question me for being on an unfamiliar side of town or rob me was only him asking for $10.
The anxiety I experienced between the moment I saw him headed toward me and when he reached his hand out to offer a dap would make some of the more aggressive, unstabled men I know resort to their fight or flight response.
All it takes is fear and a gun: no guts, no intuition. Just kill because you were scared and scapegoat your survival instinct. There might be more fear in the heart of a killer than courage. Many of us are boys trapped in men’s bodies who move and speak with fear. That ain’t no killer, that’s a scary ass nigga.
You were never free to fear anything as a child, boys. Even if it could kill you, it was better to face it and survive than fear and avoid it. It was pussy to fear for your life. Those were the type of dudes supposed to stay on the porch. If you heard anything remotely close to a gunshot, you didn’t flinch or were scared– you had to be used to sitting and living in tension and moments where your muscles of courage and poise were stretched and strengthened.
If you die, let it be without letting everyone know you want to be saved. The slightest attempt to preserve your life in the face of danger made you able to be pushed and trampled over. Niggas could sniff you out if you were pussy. These were the conditions thought to make you a man.
Told by: Kwon
