“What does this look like?”

My fifth grade Catholic school peers stared at the guest presenter silently. In his hand he held a green tube. Plastic…elongated. It was only a few inches long. Maybe-

“A condom?”

The class erupted in giggles. I was dead serious. I’d never seen one nor had “the talk” yet. I figured that’s what they looked like. It was an educated guess. The stern stare from Mrs. Beavers and the red face from the man who happened to be a representative from a local bottling plant informed me of my grievous mistake. He grimly smiled and attempted to resume control of the situation before it was derailed any further.

“This is a two liter plastic bottle before it’s inflated.”

Of course it was. Stupid Brandon. What were you thinking? Why would this random individual show a condom to the class? You should’ve said test tube or (better yet) just kept your mouth shut and let one of the other more popular students drop that quip. You know the consequences of quips. I remember teacher/parent conferences waiting at home terrified that my father would enter the house with his belt already loosened for something I’d done (or failed to do) in class. Some knew it and made sure to give glowing reports when prompted.

Then there was Mrs. Beavers.

“You’ll stay in here during recess,” she chided me after the guest presenter left. “And I’ll be calling your father.” This last line was said smugly. How dare I embarrass her in front of company? She couldn’t punish me the way she wanted to but she knew someone who could.

That day stretched out like a death row sentence. I knew exactly what I was up against when I crossed the street to go to my father’s law office where I would wait for my mother to pick us up. My sister and I had a storage room in the back where we would watch a little black and white TV and do our homework. Sometimes I’d read or draw.

Not today.

“Oh you’re a little class clown, now?”

Rhetorical questions often preceded beatings. Before I even knew the meaning of the word rhetorical, I knew answering those kinds of inquiries was pointless and often only exacerbated the already volatile situation. Often I’d just stand there. However silence only implied guilt.

Damned if you do…damned if you don’t.

“Since you decided to show your ass, I’ll show you something funny.”

My father’s belt unfurled.

As I distanced myself mentally from his blows and the pain (and sobbed quietly so as not to upset his clientele) I contemplated what I’d done. I tried to wrap my head around what I’d done wrong. Had I spoken out of turn? No…of course not. I was asked a question and responded innocently. I thought I was clever and brave in my response. I had said something no one else had dared to say! Nevermind the stellar history of respect and obedience in class. Nevermind my teacher’s notorious surly attitude. Nevermind my pleas. My fingers traced the reddened brown skin and welts that formed from the belt as I pulled my pants up.

I remember few things hurting more than feeling denim pressed against my freshly tanned hide. It was as if my clothes themselves were reminding me of my infractions.

If the words were innocent then it must be the body that’s guilty. This made sense to me. My White classmates were allowed to joke without fear of consequence. Sometimes the teachers would laugh with them. They could see their own kids in them, I gathered…maybe even themselves. As for me? I was an alien to them. My community reassured me that I could be anything I wanted to be…but an embarrassment.

Sometimes it takes a village to beat a child.

I didn’t know what a “flying monkey” was at the time. The concept is ironic considering I was raised in Kansas, home of Dorothy and the Wizard of Oz where the reference comes from. They are a necessary component of the controlled molding model of physical abuse prevalent in Black communities. People within and without the community passively and in some cases actively participate in the process. They form as extensions of the domineering parent; spies that report on the every questionable move or action of the child.

I don’t fault the unwilling participants. Because of the clandestine nature of this parenting method, many were unaware of the physical repercussions. Every child deserves loving reprimand and discipline. Such is necessary to provide moral perspective and a sense of responsibility and orientation to community. This idea is perverted however when the concept of physical violence is introduced.

Snitches give the child stitches.

Every authority figure becomes a potential source of pain that must be carefully negotiated. Potential mentors become minefields. The child learns to implement the same methods of seclusion and isolation learned at home out in the real world as a survival tactic. Withholding thoughts, suppressing feelings, evasion and concealment are valid tools of the trade. Alibis and reasons must be constructed. Anything must be done to prevent pain…or at the very least lessen it. Mistakes are made in the dark.

There is little to no objectivity in this parenting model. The will of the authority figure is absolute. The burden of proof resides not with the accuser but with the child who must rapidly put together a defense and is allowed to present little no witnesses or evidence before judgment is executed. The trial is often disturbingly Kafkaesque.

“What were you doing?”

“I was-“

“Are you talking back to me?!”

“You asked a question.”

“Are you getting smart with me?”

“Wait wait wait-“

To this day I talk fast when I’m excited.

How many Black children in our current education system are regarded as aliens? Black students are more likely to be disciplined, suspended, and expelled and increasingly diagnosed with ADHD and medicated. These decisions are often made in minds that share no connecting experiences with those that are being labeled. I'm not one to debate the advances of modern medicine however how many of these cases are truly warranted?

That’s a lot of kids showing their asses.

I know from personal experience the world becomes a dangerous one to traverse under these circumstances. It is a prison. Teachers, family friends, anyone can be a correctional officer. Negotiating the formation of identity is difficult enough without this dark place where sadism can interject itself at any moment should one not tread lightly enough. Speak softly Black child. When they descend low don’t speak. I hear wings. The sky is dark with them. Be you but not too you.

I remember returning to class the next day. I ran into Mrs. Beavers in the halls as I ascended the steps to class.

“So what did you father do?” she asked. A sickeningly sweet pleased undertone was in her voice. She knew what she had done.

None of your damn business, you raving psycho.

“Nothing.” I lied.

I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. #BlackLivesMatter

