Hands Visible

I learned the rules before I learned long division.

Don't run in stores.

Don't reach too fast.

Don't wear the hood up, even when it's raining.

Hands where they can see them.

Always.

Hands

where they can see them.

My mama taught me like a fire drill—

practice until it's automatic,

because one day the alarm will be real

and your body needs to know

what your brain won't have time to decide.

I am fifteen.

I am five foot ten.

I weigh 160 pounds.

These are just numbers

but some people read them like a warning label.

At school they say I'm "mature for my age."

At the mall the security guard says it different—

with his eyes,

with the way he follows three steps behind,

with the walkie-talkie he holds

like a rosary.

My friend Tyler is fifteen too.

Same height. Same build.

He walks into a store and he's a kid buying candy.

“He walks into a store and he's a kid buying candy. I walk in and I'm a situation being monitored.” Click to tweet →

I walk in and I'm a situation being monitored.

We both know it.

We don't talk about it.

What's there to say?

Coach says basketball will open doors.

I believe him. I've seen it happen.

But I also notice:

the door opens when I'm in a jersey.

When I'm useful.

When my body is performing.

Take the jersey off

and my body is just

a body again—

tall, Black, fifteen—

and the door gets heavy.

I don't want to be angry about this.

Anger is what they expect.

Anger is what confirms the warning label.

So I perform calm

the way other kids perform confidence.

Smile, not too wide.

Speak, not too loud.

Exist, not too much.

My dad told me something once.

He said, "The world is going to try to write your story for you.

Your job is to hold the pen."

I'm trying, Dad.

But some days the pen feels heavy too.

Some days I just want to walk in the rain

with my hood up

and my hands

in my pockets

and not have that mean

anything

to anyone

except

that it's raining

and my hands

are cold.

I am fifteen.

I play JV basketball.

I like anime and my grandmother's peach cobbler

and the way Memphis looks from the bridge at sunset.

I am not a threat.

“I am not a threat. I am not a situation. I am not a warning label.” Click to tweet →

I am not a situation.

I am not a warning label.

I'm just a kid

learning long division

and short patience

and the distance

between who I am

and who they think they see.

Hands visible.

Always.

Even when they're shaking.