Black Boys Still Aren’t Safe
Nolan Wells, microaggressions, and the sinister desire for ongoing grief and pain
I trekked to a coffee shop the other day, needing to escape the doldrums of my office basement. Said basement produces much to be proud of, capitalistic treasures that I may sparingly find delightful but nonetheless impress enough to pay the bills. Cog in the unfettered capitalist machine fulfilled. I know my ancestors are proud.
I grabbed some space in the far corner of the large cafe. It is spotted with a number of tables, over a dozen, each with four chairs, almost always occupied by a singular person on weekdays. I whisked to the corner, to a bar stool with an electrical outlet on each side, where the glass windows of the triangular walls merge to create the perfect view of onlookers when glancing up from the laptop. A break from the parasitic hunch.
After being there for hours, I was about ready to wrap up. A new change of scenery was needed, and I had successfully accomplished half of the things I needed to on this day. Thus, I had earned the right to go home. The basement could handle the rest of the day’s particularities.
Still griding away with a mental countdown in my head, a woman approached me. There was an elderly man behind her, and the woman carried the man’s coffee and baked good. Adjacent to me were two other men, both White, both taking up precisely the same amount of space as I, both engaging the young lady in eye contact and acknowledgement as she approached.
But you know how this story goes, because even to this lady, a Black woman at that, there was never a doubt about who she would ask to be accommodating, to alter their space, to reorient themselves after four hours of comfort and $28 spent on a crappy latte and a severely overpriced salad. The other guys were White, it felt like she said, and even in the year of our Lord two thousand and twenty-six, you are to be the accommodating one.
I started chuckling before she could even get the words out. “Do you mind if I make some space here?” as she proceeded to move my items with her eyes, pretending to ask the question as if she ever expected I would stand my ground, demand a response to an inquiry as to why she would expect me to alter my existence. And then I thought about it, and it occurred to me that she may have done this because she understands the plight, and knew the path of least resistance was to ask a Black man, as a Black woman herself, to be accommodating.
I packed up my things and waltzed back to my vehicle, making it a point not to move for any White person on the sidewalk. I shall not bury my head in submission, nor do you have the right to run a zigzag route on this street. I bumped shoulders with two of them. We are both fierce and broad.
Shortly thereafter, I stopped by a space I have been meaning to check out. In the market for co-working space for reasons I shall not reveal to the public just yet, I found a spot with good reviews and decent prices within a 14-minute walk from my home. Check it out, they say. It could work out, they say. Except it doesn’t. Life can rarely be that easy.
A Black gentleman approaches me as I wait outside the locked door.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
“Yeah, I’m in the market for co-working space.” I reply.
“What you looking for?”
“Depends on the price and amenities, but I prefer a private office.”
“That’s $1,100.” He says dismissively.
“Okay, cool.” I reply rather snakingly. “The website says $800.”
“We’ve got $1,100 on the website.” Buddy retorts.
“Yeah, but your website doesn’t say what’s available and what isn’t, so I’m thinking $800. Anyways, you do tours?” I ask.
“We do tours by appointment. I’m dealing with an IT issue at the moment. Any chance you can come back tomorrow?”
It is in that moment that I know, in fact, that I will not be returning tomorrow.
Office manager buddy and I scheduled some time for the following day at 11:45 AM. He handed me a brochure and a business card, and as I walked out the door returning to my car, I ripped both up and left them in the trash. I won’t be coming here to spend money.
Sometimes, for a quick flash, I daydream about what both of those experiences, in the same day, within 20 minutes of one another, in one of the Blackest cities in America, would have been like had I been born into a different body. What would my life look like? And what kind of opportunities would I have been afforded if I weren’t Black?
I don’t linger in those thoughts, to be clear. I mean it when I say I would choose to be Black in every lifetime, but whether we admit it or not, there are moments when the microaggressions, even from your own people, make you want to shed all ounce of respect for humanity, and say the quiet things aloud with fists, brass knuckles, and coarse words.
I just got back in the car and put on Jamila Woods.
From moments as small as the two I had today, to the realization as big as your son not coming home from a day by the water, America proves it’s contempt for Black people over and over again.
As the family of Nolan Wells prepared to have a celebration of life for him and lay him to rest, a GoFundMe setup in support of the family was casted in negative and suspicious light by a right-wing influencer. It’s not enough that a grieving mother and father have just buried their child. It’s not enough that Nolan’s supposed friends refuse to provide any information about what may have happened. It’s not enough that there are many parts of this investigation that reek of a coverup. The pain of losing a child isn’t enough to some of these monsters – they must suffer after the funeral, too.
Meanwhile, not too long ago, in a story you’ve probably never heard of, a so-called NFL scouting expert has been scamming people online for years. Matt Miller is known as the draft scout online, despite never having actually displayed any real talent for scouting NFL players. As he built a platform across social media relaying the information given to him by actual NFL front office executives, and bullying people online who dear question his obtuseness, his fraudulent scheme was coming to light.
He had solicited supposed donations for veterans, charities, and schools, collecting this money through payment platforms like Venmo and PayPal. He ran faux fantasy leagues where the proceeds would supposedly support charities. He did all of this, mind you, while employed at ESPN, an outfit that used to be an actual journalistic organization but has disintegrated into debate slop hell thanks to the incompetent and inscrutable likes of Stephen A. Smith and Pat McAfee.
It became clear that Miller’s jig was about to be up, with enough people having filed reports about Miller stealing their money and never rendering services for the Attorney General of Missouri, not exactly a position known for being a bastion of consumer protection, launching an investigation. Miller got into a horrific accident, one in which the cause is very much speculative. Watch the video and come up with your own conclusion.
One grieving family of Black people receives donations, and the right-wing homicidal influencer chain pounces. Another guy has a GoFundMe shared by his equally draining ESPN buddies, and it isn’t until after the top prosecutor in the state publicly acknowledges an investigation that the donation page is paused.
And you don’t see color.
Real Faith Chronicles
Episode 3 - The Burden of Being Black
Plus: What it Means to Live (and Die), Our So-Called Christian Nation, and Remembering Nolan Wells
In this week’s episode of Real Faith Chronicles, Kayela and I discuss the death of South Carolina Senator Lindsey Graham, and we ask ourselves some pretty poignant questions – how are we to respond, as Christians, when someone dies? And how we do reconcile those exhortations to the reality of an evil, fallen, oppressive world?
Next, we respond to a viral clip of a pastor saying America isn’t and has never been a Christian nation. Finally, we dive into the continued aftermath of the tragic death of Nolan Wells.
