He said “thank you” as he walked away, slipping my phone into his pocket and zipping the jacket over the impossibly large pistol bulging from his waistband.



I’d been coming back from the corner store a few minutes earlier and saw them walking on the other side of the street. I pulled my hood over my head to ward off the brisk chill and noticed we looked almost identical – three slim black guys in hoodies, jeans and backpacks.

A few minutes later they were sprinting up from behind. The taller one blocked my path and opened his jacket enough to flash the large piece weighing down his jeans. The other posted to the side-short, fidgety and trying unsuccessfully to look tough.

It took me a second to realize what was happening. They were young enough to be my sons and puny under their baggy clothes. They mumbled, kept their eyes to the ground and the weapon looked like it would have taken all four of their scrawny arms to lift and fire.

They reminded me of so many of the teenagers I’ve encountered over the years around the neighborhood – mentees, casual acquaintances and the young guys I said “what’s up” to every day on the block.

Some were just trying to break free of the stereotypes associated with young black men, many adopted just enough swagger and were posturing to fit in, and a small handful experienced enough genuine pain in their short lives to lead them to late-night robberies and petty crime.

All of this flashed through my head as we stood there in the darkness. And where some might have felt fear, I only felt disappointment – like catching a loved one doing something stupid, and angry that that one stupid act could have potentially deadly consequences.

The threat hung there, silently, between us

These were my kids, bonded not by blood but by shared circumstances. The familiarity was so strong that, more than fear, I had to fight down a parental urge to berate them for the actions and lecture them about the social, political and economic factors that created this situation. And demand that they get back home and finish their homework.

But the threat was still there, hanging silently between us. Not much needed to be said. My wallet was opened and emptied, and my phone pulled out and unlocked.

How could I push those two teenagers towards a system in which we have such evidence to distrust?

It had all happened so quickly that just a few seconds after they’d robbed me the two teens were already sprinting away, disappearing over the bridge into the dark downtown night.

I have lived in Oakland for the past 12 years and spent most of my life in nearly identical neighborhoods – low income and working class, predominantly black communities.

I knew people by their names, faces and stories. I’d attended parties and meetings in the park up the street where the Black Panther Party ran many of their education and social service initiatives. I listened to the old Vietnam vet, who lost his legs in the war and parked his wheelchair beside the bus stop to watch the neighborhood evolve. I’d worked with the publisher of the largest black newspaper in the area, who walked the few blocks from his house to his office downtown every day to report on a community with more nuance and resilience than most outsider stories of Oakland gave it credit for.

But I also knew that this neighborhood had more than its fair share of problems, from gang shootings and police violence to unemployment and lack of adequate basic services. Robbery is often a crime of opportunity, and one that can feel like a necessity to those who feel it’s one of the only options.

I know where these kids are coming from

While tech companies moved in a few blocks away, unemployment in this community is nearly five times the national average. As houses are flipped for a half million dollars, longtime families are being evicted. And ongoing threats of police harassment and racial profiling cast ongoing shadows of suspicion over young black and Latino residents, both those that are completely innocent and those like the two that robbed me, doing what they thought they needed to to survive.

I can’t condone their actions, and just growing up in a tough neighborhood doesn’t give anyone an excuse to commit crime. But I understand where these kids were coming from. And I know that it would be inaccurate to just look at incidents like this as isolated and not the result of layered systemic and cultural ills.

Later that night, after the robbery, I remembered the names and faces of so many people I’d known and grown up with that had been caught in the system, branded as criminals and imprisoned, when the realities of their motivations were much more complicated.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest The author and Oakland resident Kwan Booth Photograph: Kwan Booth

Calling the police never crossed my mind. How could I push those two teenagers towards a system in which we have such evidence to distrust?

Fairness and rehabilitation are luxuries not often afforded to the thousands of black and brown youths from communities just like mine that are incarcerated every year. And those that have repeatedly been on the receiving end of racial profiling, police abuse and systemic racism tend to think long and hard before calling the cops.

With recidivism rates for young black men at as much as 80%, what is a conviction except a fast-track to prison and a closed door to any kind of reform or rehabilitation? Would notifying the police in this case just increase their presence in the neighborhood and possibly lead to another Tamir Rice or Aiyana Stanley-Jones style “officer-involved shooting”?

Could I expect any justice from the same organization whose officers pulled guns on me and three other honor students when I was around their age?

The young man’s “thank you” had came off as reflexive, like a response that had been drilled into him by a parent or authority figure – someone trying to make sure that he didn’t end up in situations like this, or worse.

But if the phrase was in any way appropriate, I’d like to think that it was because I saw the complexities of the road that led them to this point. And that I saw the two of them not as criminals or thugs, but as young people trying to navigate a winding system littered with massive hurdles. And I refused to condemn them for this misguided turn.

They took my phone and a few crumpled bills, but I gave them the benefit of the doubt for every time that someone else hadn’t. I gave them my empathy, for the lives they’ve lived and the battles they will no doubt have to keep fighting.