Dear Martin

Justyce can hear the approaching footsteps, but he stays focused on getting Melo strapped in. He wants it to be clear to the cop that she wasn’t gonna drive so she won’t be in even worse trouble.

Before he can get his head out of the car, he feels a tug on his shirt and is yanked backward. His head smacks the doorframe just before a hand clamps down on the back of his neck. His upper body slams onto the trunk with so much force, he bites the inside of his cheek, and his mouth fills with blood.

“Officer, this is a big misundersta—’’ he starts to say, but he doesn’t get to finish because the officer hits him in the face.

“Don’t you say shit to me, you son of a bitch. I knew your punk ass was up to no good when I saw you walking down the road with that goddamn hood on.”

So the hood was a bad idea. Earbuds too. Probably would’ve noticed he was being trailed without them. “But, Officer, I—”

“You keep your mouth shut.” The cop squats and gets right in Justyce’s face. “I know your kind; punks like you wander the streets of nice neighborhoods searching for prey. Just couldn’t resist the pretty white girl who’d locked her keys in her car, could ya?”

I’m a 17-year-old high school senior and full-scholarship student at Braselton Preparatory Academy in Atlanta, Georgia. I’m ranked fourth in my graduating class of 83, I’m the captain of the debate team, I scored a 1560 and a 34 on my SATs and ACTs respectively, and despite growing up in a “bad” area (not too far from your old stomping grounds), I have a future ahead of me that will likely include an Ivy League education, an eventual law degree, and a career in public policy.

Sadly, during the wee hours of this morning, literally none of that mattered.

I dunno. I’ve seen some pictures of Shemar Carson, and he did have kind of a thuggish appearance. In a way, I guess I thought I didn’t really need to concern myself with this type of thing because compared to him, I don’t come across as “threatening,” you know? I don’t sag my pants or wear my clothes super big. I go to a good school, and have goals and vision and “a great head on my shoulders,” as Mama likes to say.

Last night changed me. I don’t wanna walk around all pissed off and looking for problems, but I know I can’t continue to pretend nothing’s wrong. Yeah, there are no more “colored” water fountains, and it’s supposed to be illegal to discriminate, but if I can be forced to sit on the concrete in too-tight cuffs when I’ve done nothing wrong, it’s clear there’s an issue. That things aren’t as equal as folks say they are.

Jared: Can you believe that asshole? What kind of teacher has the nerve to suggest there’s racial inequality to a classroom full of millennials?

Kyle: Seriously, bro? He said that shit?

Jared: I kid you not, bro. The dean should fire his ass. I seriously might have my dad give the school a call.

“[…] We had this discussion in class today, and…I don’t know, Ma. Everything I’m doing right now feels like a losing battle.”

She nodded. “Hard being a black man, ain’t it?”

I shrugged. “Guess that’s one way to put it. All I know is I can’t seem to find where I fit. Especially at that school.”

“Hmm.”

[…]

She crossed her arms and lifted her chin, and that’s when I knew there’d be no sympathy. “So watchu gon’ do? Run away?”

I sighed. “I don’t know, Mama.”

“You think coming back here will solve your problem?”

“At least I’d be around people who know the struggle.”

She snorted. “Boy, you betta get your behind on up that school.”

Me: Well, either way it went, I was sayin somethin’, you know? Staying woulda been a statement of solidarity with these guys I grew up with—and who look like me. Leaving was a different statement, and the fact that I chose to do it with a white guy who was dressed as a Klansman…well…

Let’s observe, shall we? I’m ranked number two in our class, I’m captain of the baseball team, I do community service on weekends, and I got higher test scores than Justyce . . . yet he got into Yale early action, and I didn’t. I know for a fact it’s because I’m white and he’s black.

Now say you have a black guy—not Justyce, but someone else—whose single parent’s income falls beneath the poverty line. He lives in a really crummy area and goes to a public school that has fifteen-year-old textbooks and no computers. Most of the teachers are fresh out of college and leave after a year. Some psychological testing has been done at this school, and the majority of students there, this guy included, are found to suffer from low self-esteem and struggle with standardized testing because of stereotype threat—basically, the guy knows people expect him to underperform, which triggers severe test anxiety that causes him to underperform.

[…]

Now erase the two backgrounds. We’ll keep it simple and say GPA-wise, you have a four-point-oh and he has a three-point-six. Test scores, you got a fifteen-eighty, right? Well, this guy got an eleven-twenty. Based on GPA and scores only, which one of you is more likely to get into a good college?

It’s like I’m trying to climb a mountain, but I’ve got one fool trying to shove me down so I won’t be on his level, and another fool tugging at my leg, trying to pull me to the ground he refuses to leave. Jared and Trey are only two people, but after today, I know that when I head to Yale next fall (because I AM going there), I’m gonna be paranoid about people looking at me and wondering if I’m qualified to be there.

“So check this out,” she said, rotating the screen so he could see it. “The Myth of the Superpredator” was the title of the article. “The gist of this: back in the nineties, some big-shot researchers predicted that the number of violent crimes committed by African American teen males would skyrocket in the years to follow. The ‘leading authority’ on the matter dubbed these potential criminals superpreda­tors.”

[…]

“Fortunately, the prediction was incorrect,” she went on. “Crime rates among youth plummeted.”

He smiled. “Okay . . .”

“Unfortunately, it seems the fear of young black guys created by this research is alive and well.”

“You coming over here asking us to help you use a black girl IS a big deal, Blake. That’s not to mention you tossin’ the n-word around like you own it.”

Blake: You don’t own it any more than I do, bro. Nobody owns words. I’d think you’d know that as someone “smart enough” to get into Yale.

Manny: All right, y’all, let’s calm down before this gets outta hand.

Justyce: It’s already outta hand, Manny. Your boy Blake is a racist.

Blake: What is it with you people and the goddamn race card, huh?

Justyce: We people. You realize Manny is one of us peo­ple too, right?

Blake: Except Manny’s got some sense and doesn’t make everything about race. Why don’t you loosen the hell up?

“That’s what it was like for me at the new school. Every­body saw me as black, even with the light skin and green eyes. The black kids expected me to know all the cultural references and slang, and the white kids expected me to ‘act’ black. It was a rude awakening for me. When you spend your whole life being ‘accepted’ by white people, it’s easy to ignore history and hard to face stuff that’s still problematic, you feel me?”

“I guess.”

“And as for you, the only way you’re gonna thrive is if you’re okay with yourself, man. People are gonna disrespect you, but so what? Guys like Jared don’t have any bearing on how far you get in life. If you know the stuff they’re say­ing isn’t true, why let it bother you?”

“[…] My point is the world is full of guys like Jared and that employee, and most of them will never change. So it’s up to you fellas to push through it. Probably best not to talk with your fists in the future…” He nudged Manny. “But at least you have an idea of what you’re up against. Try not to let it stop you from doing your best, all right?”

He rubbed both of our heads and got up to leave.

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it, Martin. Frankly, it’s pretty discouraging. To think Mr. Julian has all that authority and still gets disrespected? Hearing it made me realize I still had hope that once I really achieve some things, I won’t have to deal with racist BS anymore.

That’s obviously not the case, though, is it?

“The man was defending himself from thugs,” said Tison’s neighbor […]. “I've known Garrett for twenty-five years. If he says those boys had a gun, they had a gun.” A fellow police officer, who asked to remain anonymous, claims the indictment is nothing more than a publicity stunt at Tison’s expense. “They're out to make an example of him. Prosecutor pulled the race card, and the grand jury bought it hook, line, and sinker.”

Aiight, listen up: where I come from, resistance is existence, homie. Every day I woke up in my hood coulda been my last. You wanna survive? Get wit some niggas who won’t turn on you, and y’all do whatever it takes to stay at the top, you feel me? My dudes . . . they’re like family to me. They’ve got my back as long as I have theirs.

“[…] Look, Jus, people need the craziness in the world to make some sort of sense to them. That idiot ‘pundit’ would rather believe you and Manny were thugs than believe a twenty-year veteran cop made a snap judgment based on skin color. He identifies with the cop. If the cop is capable of murder, it means he’s capable of the same. He can’t accept that.”