There is So Much Death in Black Life
Even death has a racial bias
On our second date, the man who would become my life partner received an unexpected phone call. It was from an old friend. At first, my partner’s face lit up, the way faces do when you hear from someone you haven’t heard from for a while. His dark skin crinkled around his eyes and he flashed his signature dimples.
But the delight drained swiftly, overshadowed by a cloud of confusion.
“What?” my partner said.
Then: “How?”
It was clear to me that some Big News had been delivered, and it wasn’t good. But I still wasn’t prepared for what my partner told me when he hung up the phone.
His childhood friend had been shot and killed. They first met in an aftercare program at age six; they stayed friends through high school. He was the sweetest boy, my partner said. Gentle, kind.
His life had been snubbed out in the blink of an eye. He was 27 years old.
I was the one who unwittingly stumbled across the news of my partner’s stepmom. Near the end of my workday, I was posting an event to our company’s Facebook page and saw the post from my partner’s stepsister. It was a hysterical string of fragmented sentences. Mama… dead… found… bed… how?
