It Doesn’t Matter If You’re a Child, They Still Want to Harm You… or Worse

For Black children, in particular, a prosperous life free from targeting has always been a fantasy.

Tamir Rice was 12.

Aiyana Stanley-Jones was 7.

Michaelangelo and Makiah Jackson were 6 and 3, respectively.

Tyre King was 13.

Emmett Till was 14.

The preservation of childhood innocence has long been a staple of this country’s doctrine. The safety and protection of the small and helpless are looked upon as our top priority. This however does not apply to all children, especially Black children — not in this country anyway. Throughout our history, inherent racism has been the lens through which many look.

Systems have been put in place to oppress minority communities for generations causing horrific legacies of injustice, inequality, discrimination, and of course, racism.

Despite an ever-present mandate to devalue the BIPOC community in this country, we do our best to raise our children to be happy, and accepting, and loving but the reality is there will always be those out there who want nothing more than to harm our kin.

The Maine event

As of late, I’ve had the great pleasure of walking down memory lane with my father — something I always cherish and look forward to. Recently he began a rather disturbing tale I previously had forgotten or had thought unimportant to retain — though the retelling of this tale did conjure up a few grainy images.

This story ascends into an exploration of disregard for a child and the exercising of one’s true nature by attempting to extinguish said child’s young life to satisfy a lust for disgust.

One particular summer, Acadia National Park in Maine was the chosen destination for our annual family camping excursion. We had made this trek many times, as Bar Harbor was a frequent stomping ground for us.

On the day we would head back home, we left Bar Harbor early to get a jump on the traffic. In typical fashion, the hunger complaints of a five-year-old began instantly and would be the prime annoyance along the way. Within a half-hour, it was clear that if we didn’t stop, the rest of the car ride home would result in an unwelcomed meltdown on the part of the backseat’s occupant.

In order to shut down the epic whining, my parents stopped in Camden, a small town about an hour and a half south of Bar Harbor. There, we would not only satisfy our hunger but involuntarily be involved in yet another injustice bestowed upon a transracial family just trying to live their lives.

My how things have NOT changed.

Aviators

As clear as a fresh memory, my father continued to recall the events of that day.

We had just finished lunch and were on our way back to the car. The diner’s parking lot, though small, was large enough to accommodate a fair amount of out-of-towners and be the scene for a pending hate crime.

In listening to the story of that summer, I was brought back to a time that solidified and shined a spotlight on the injustice a young transracial family experienced in the mid-’70s.

With hand in hand, my mother guided me along as my father, a few steps in front, was readying the car keys. Though my brain is challenged to form a detailed depiction of this day, I do remember the sun and the oppressive heat (well, oppressive for a five-year-old). Not uncommon weather for New England in mid-August.

While walking toward our car, another car came careening from behind my mother and me nearly hitting us. My father, who must have heard the roaring engine, looked back just in time to see this large mass of metal gunning toward his young family. In an effort to shield us, he leaped forward and both he and my mother simultaneously dragged me from the center row toward the closest parked car.

The speeding car came within inches of turning me into a hood ornament, and my parents, childless.

Was this a deliberate act?

The car came to a screeching halt only feet away. Seconds after, a visibly irate man stumbled out and began to hold court for only our ears. Still reeling from what had just transpired, my parents were now in full protective mode. The offender, wearing a “police-lite” uniform straight out of rent-a-cop school went right for my father, yelling as if he owned the atmosphere, and throwing out whatever inflammatory verbal attacks he could organize. His choice of language used for his assault circled around his disgust for not only “that little monkey” but for the “n****r lovers” with it.

In a display of misguided bravado, the parking lot attendant took off his Aviators and threw them on the trunk of his car. An act of intimidation, I suppose. Either that or he was more concerned with “peacocking” than terrorizing.

My father, wasting no time, took the opportunity to position himself for a potential scuffle. With the intention of establishing his presence, the wannabe rent-a-cop turned around and lurched forward. Already balanced, my father sidestepped and used his opponent’s inertia to guide him “gently” to the ground.

Shocked by his miscalculation, the ground dweller gingerly got to his feet and yet again, tried for intimidation; ranting things like “hippie scums shouldn't be allowed in OUR town” and “WE don’t want people like you around here” while preparing for another charge.

It was the kick to the plums by my father that did the trick. While on his way down to the pavement for the second time, my mother, not wanting to be left out of the action, stepped in to finish the job. Landing squarely and without reservation, her haymaker completed his embarrassment and humiliation. With his ass handed to him and trying unsuccessfully to muster whatever dignity he had left, he got to his feet but this time changed tactics and decided to up the ante.

“I’m going to get my gun and take care of you bastards,” he growled.

After the takedown, the three of us made our way back to the diner to call the police. The patrons, some of whom witnessed the parking lot exchange, were at first silent, providing no visible care for a young child — a young Black child — almost hit by a car. Occasionally looking up from their chipped beef on toast and afternoon pancakes they seemed more concerned about their interrupted lunch than what had just befallen.

Moments later, Camden’s finest arrived.

As my parents began their statement, the parking lot assailant came charging through the front door of the diner still livid from being bested by a young and inferior family. His anger, not hidden, became the “special” for the day. His rants escalated as he tried to articulate his distaste for what he viewed as, these animals in his town.

Apparently, the cops on the scene knew of the aggressor and were familiar with his history yet uninterested in escorting him to their berry mobile — not an unusual occurrence especially back then, nor today.

When the subject of pressing charges was voiced, the position the “lead” boy in blue took was to try and convince my parents that doing so would be a long process, and if court were to happen, they would have come back to retell their story and invite scrutiny.

It wasn’t until moments into the recap did a woman step up and offer her testimony.

“I saw the whole thing and it happened just as he said,” referring to my father.

Just then she turned to my father and presented him with an unexpected gift in the form of a folded piece of paper… “Here is my name and address in case you need me to testify in court. I’d be happy to do so. I saw that man try to hit your child with his car.”

At that moment, perhaps because of a sudden feeling of empowerment washing over the coffee-stained Formica counter, one by one, other patrons came to our defense and offered their support.

Unfortunately, nothing came of the police involvement, but that shouldn’t be a shock. This was a typical practice, especially given the circumstances and who the participants were.

Don’t skip breakfast

To this day, the lack of humanity we see plaguing our society astonishes me.

What is it within certain people who allow themselves to act on every instinct, no matter the consequences? Even on autopilot sporting horse blinders (or Aviators), there never seems to be any sense of reasoning, checked intellect, empathy, or dare I say, civility. It’s always “go time,” and whatever gets in their way — watch out.

I can’t imagine living a life such as this. But then again I have never tried to run over a child.

There must be something ingrained in those whose first inclination is to cause harm to a child of a different race. That it’s second nature to commit such a horrible act is a look into the disgusting reality that is the systemic behavior of a deeply flawed individual. I’ll go a step further… to look at a precious Black child and only think about how to snuff out their life is a thought process I do not have the ability to comprehend.

With a spotlight on today’s police violence epidemic, it’s not difficult to see the connection with overt racist actions taken against Black people, especially Black youth.

As penned by Emma Mehrabi, Director of Poverty Policy at the Children’s Defense Fund, the devaluation of Black children is a direct result of the historic disparities in society and has caused generational victimization in Black communities.

I have tried to understand why people go to the lengths they do to harm others, specifically, children of a different race. The hatred they harbor blinds them. Thinking perhaps if they take action to “rid the world of such filth,” this somehow justifies their ideology, therefore it’s ok. This is a poor excuse of course but is unfortunately widespread; being etched into the minds of many Americans.

Protecting those who can’t protect themselves, even if they are not your own is the true definition of what it means to be someone who values and respects human life. Yea I know, this sounds a bit preachy but perhaps this is something we need — more people who adhere to that original doctrine of preserving our children (and anyone for that matter) and not losing sight of that unspoken moral contract we all signed to respect one another.

It takes those with a moral compass who can genuinely see injustice, to join the cause. We only hope others follow suit and step up as did that woman in the diner those many years ago. In a society where a majority drives the control, it can be difficult to envision justice for all, and the notion of equality… well, this has been a never-ending quest.

For a few years after the events of that summer, my father pondered going back to Camden to find that rent-a-cop. No doubt in an effort to see if he had finished his driving lessons.

Though the incident that day was enough to satisfy the quota of traumatic experiences for one lifetime, it is but one example of what many people in BIPOC communities face on a daily basis.

Have you hugged your kid(s) today?

Thank you for reading!

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