B, I remember one time I was practicing my pitching in the schoolyard across the street from mom’s house in Park Slope. You were visiting and crossed the street with an old wooden bat, asking me to pitch to you. I knew you’d been a star athlete in high school; I’d seen videos of you hitting home runs over the fields by the Parade Grounds on Caton Avenue and heard stories from your friends that you started dunking when you were only in 9th grade.
I remember stepping into my full windup for the first pitch, reaching back, and whipping my fastest fastball right down into the middle of that painted box. When you hit it, the ball sailed across the length of the schoolyard—250 feet—well over a five-story building at the other end of the yard. I think that ball could have made it out of Yankee Stadium, even at center field.
If you’ve ever wondered what role you would have played in the American Civil Rights Movement, this is your chance to find out.
I know that your dad never did that sort of thing with you, and you know that my dad never did that kind of thing with me, either. But you were there for me, and I’d like to think that it meant a lot for you, too. I didn’t often feel strong in those days, though had that feeling when I was with you.
The next year, I graduated high school and I wrote a message on my yearbook page dedicated to your newborn son, my nephew. “You don’t know how lucky you are,” I wrote. Then I left, spent four years in a fancy college upstate, and moved further from our working-class roots—and subsequently, further from you. In recent years, we’ve spoken less and less.
Then we started arguing about “politics”—if you can call police violence a political issue instead of a human rights one.
But it’s because I love you so much, brother, that I feel the need to plead with you. And it’s not just that I want to say please, please don’t vote for Donald Trump (although I want to say that, too).
When I first started posting on Facebook about Black Lives Matter, you argued on behalf of the cops who killed Mike Brown, Eric Garner, and Tamir Rice. I remember you said that Tamir—a 12-year-old child—was “reaching into his waistband” when he was executed by an out-of-control man so fearful that he hadn’t even exited his car fully before firing his weapon.
We have a great responsibility as parents of white children...
You have a son. I have a son. But unlike black children across the nation, our sons do not need to be taught to fear for their lives in the presence of those meant to protect us. Should—God forbid—either of our sons become a victim in the epidemic of police violence, we can be sure to see at least some measure of justice, but there has been zero recourse for the families of black and brown victims of police brutality in recent memory. We can’t be quiet about that injustice, and we certainly can’t reflexively defend police officers when they are never held accountable for murdering civilians.
If you’ve ever wondered what role you would have played in the American Civil Rights Movement, this is your chance to find out. When future generations look back on the shameful history being created in this moment and the nation’s collective reaction, there will be a right and wrong side of history. Right now, we’re all placing ourselves on one side or the other. That means something not just for our reputations, but our very souls.
I’ve seen you and your wife work full-time, and over-time, struggle to make ends meet, and give everything for your kids. I know that you feel left out and shortchanged by this country and its systems yet you’ve raised beautiful, compassionate, and intelligent children. I’m pleading with you to imagine what it would feel like to have that ripped away with no reason or recourse, like the parents of every unnamed Trayvon Martin.
We have a great responsibility as parents of white children: we must teach them to understand and reckon with their privilege—not to feel guilty or atone for it, not to falsely abandon or ignore it—but to wield it to help amplify the voices of those who have been denied justice, and eventually create a world where “all lives matter” isn’t a deflective weapon but an actual idea and guiding principle for a more empathetic society.
I love you, B, but I needed to say this because our children are watching. Let’s be the role models we always wanted in our lives.
