Carvell Wallace’s previous work for The Toast can be found here. Donations to Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church can be given here.
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Hey mom.
I’m glad you’re not here.
It was always hard for me to watch things like this with you. You overreacted to everything on the news. I hated that about you. Every storm, every wildfire, every random shooting, every nighttime strangler, you acted as if seeing them on the news would somehow magically make them show up at our apartment door. You issued nonsensical warnings like “Be careful out there. They’re shooting folks for no reason.” It annoyed the hell out of me. I was a teenager then. But then, around your mom, you’re always a teenager.
Remember when they were beating Rodney King? You yelled at me in the morning from the living room. I was trying to get ready for school. Come out here you said. They’re beating this man on television. Hurry up. But I didn’t want to hurry up. I was a teenager. You can’t hurry when your mom says hurry when you’re a teenager. You have to take your time. You have to act like everything she says is the stupidest, most unnecessary and most annoying thing in the history of people. You have to believe she’s exaggerating, mom. There’s no way they’re not beating a man on television.
But I did saunter out. And I did see it with my own eyes. Grainy night time camcorder footage, shaky and uncertain. A figure on the ground dressed in white, crumpled to his knees, surrounded by cops. They were kicking the shit out of him. With boots and batons and fists. They were going back for more. They were taking breaks and starting again. Over and over. Over and over.
Whatever, I thought. Nothing, I said. I didn’t want to give you the satisfaction of being right.
But you were. They were beating that man on television.
I went back to the bathroom. Finished brushing my hair. Making sure my waves were right. Slapped on deodorant. Combed the thing that I felt certain at the time was a mustache. Flexed my pecs a little. Made a few sexy faces. Practiced my effortless cool look. Felt satisfied. I had pretty eyes. Any girl would fall in love with me. I was 15. I was ready for the world.
But when I went to open the bathroom door, it was locked.
From the inside.
I remember that, ma.
I locked the bathroom door from the inside. Without even knowing it. You didn’t know it either. I never told you. I just unlocked it quietly, got my backpack, and hopped on the bus to sulk through the the rest of the day. Like nothing happened. But seeing them beating that man on television, it scared me in a place so deep, so hidden, that I didn’t even know about it. My brain kept playing as though I were a regular teenager. But my body, my body ma, the body you gave me, my body knew the truth. My body locked the door from the inside.
We weren’t used to these things yet. We thought this was as bad as it would get. We didn’t know there’d be a day when they would not only beat that man on television, but they would strangle that man, shoot that man, kick that man, and kill that man on television. We thought this was as bad as it would get. Everyone had seen it. And they certainly couldn’t let it go now. They were caught. Remember how we thought that, ma?
Today, they killed nine people in an AME church. And I’m glad you’re not here because you’d be shaking your head and clucking low and quietly calling on Jesus’ name. You’d be asking what the world was coming to. You’d call Aunt Shirley and Aunt Bev and the three of you would repeat the same things over and over. It’s a low-down dirty shame. Like we’re no better than dogs. What type of evil would possess a man…
I wouldn’t be a teenager anymore. But then I would be because you’re always a teenager around your mom. And I’d be annoyed with you. I’d want you to handle it differently. I’d want you to do what I do. Maybe write a think piece or say some smart shit on Twitter. But you wouldn’t. You’d just say the same things over and over.
It’s a low down dirty shame.
Like we’re not better than dogs.
What type of evil would possess a man…
And you’d be quiet for a long time. Staring into space. Chewing the inside of your lip. And then you’d shake your head slowly and heavily and you’d probably say:
Some things never change.
And I wouldn’t want you to be right.
-June 17, 2015.
Tags: carvell wallace, family, love, moms, race, racism, relationships, terrorism, this fucked up country, writing
Thank you for writing this, and thank you for deciding to make it public. Thank you to the Toast for publishing it, and for consistently making space for voices like this.
It matters. It’s necessary.
So thank you.
Heart wrenching. Thank you.
This was beautiful and necessary
Thank you for this
I’m so heartbroken by your last line, by all of it. I went to school in South Carolina; my people there are drawing together online but it feels so futile. This is a country where people are gunned down in malls, in theaters, in their apartments, in freaking churches and elementary schools for racism or hate or no reason at all and we seem incapable of doing anything about it. In fact, our politicians seem hellbent on ensuring as that as many tools of violence can get into the hands of horrible people as possible.
“We weren’t used to these things yet. We thought this was as bad as it would get.”
“Used to these things.”
“Used to these things.”
That sums up the horror, right there. Thank you.
We thought this was as bad as it would get.
This absolutely breaks my heart. As does the fact that we live in a world that proved you wrong.
Thank you for writing this–and thank you for including the link to donate. I know money doesn’t erase the horror, but I hope it can help provide some comfort for those reeling in the aftermath.
Brutual and too true. I appreciate your voice. Thank your for including a link for donations
Where even to start. Thank you, I’m sorry, I hate everything, this was beautiful and horrible.
So grateful to you for writing this, Carvell.
The words are one thing, but I just keep coming back to the love shining on the faces of that beautiful boy and his beautiful mama, and I can’t imagine how anyone could ever look at either of those people and see anything other than the best we human beings can hope to be. Everyone killed last night was loved and loved in turn.
Thank you for this.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you for these powerful words. I am so, so sorry for your heartbreak. What a lovely, loving, strong woman your mother was, and you are carrying on her legacy.
Beautifully written. Powerful. Thank you.
This is so eloquent and important and thank you for writing and sharing it. There are so many truths here, one of the smaller ones “You can’t hurry when your mom says hurry when you’re a teenager” but yeah. This is a remarkable fucking essay.
But then when I went to open the bathroom door, it was locked.
From the inside.
I remember that, ma.
This is how our country’s systemic racism gets inside all of us. It happens when we’re doing other things, when we don’t notice. Thank you for writing it, thank you for telling us this moment that you never told your mother. We need to remember that this is how it gets in.
Thank you, Mr. Wallace. I read this piece out loud to my husband. Words written like these need to be read out loud.
Well. I wept.
Heartbreaking and beautiful.
Thank you for this.
Thank you for writing this.
So brutal and it’s painful that no matter how much these things are taped and recorded, it still happens. What kind of world is this?
Thank you for writing this.
Peace from here to eternity for you and your mom, and for all the slain – this time, the last time, and in times to come, and for those of us who are alive and remain. Peace unto us.
God, this is heartbreaking. Thank you.
Tears. Streams of them. Thank you for bearing witness.
This is stunning, so powerful.
This is stunning, so powerful.
Thank you for sharing with us.
Thank you for sharing with us.
Thank you.
christ.
one long distance, atemporal hug for you and your mother.
thank you for a strong and sad and beautiful piece of writing
Horrifyingly beautiful. Thank you for your words.
Your shirt: Liberty
the state of being free within society from oppressive restrictions imposed by authority on one’s way of life, behavior, or political views.
Thank you for sharing, Mr. Wallace.
yes.
Poignant, heartbreaking, and so precious. Moreover so necessary during this time when my heart and soul ache for the families and victims of the terrorist attack on the Emmanuel AME church. Thank you Mr. Wallace for sharing your thoughts, memories, and the photograph of you and your beautiful mother. In this picture, she had her form of social media, because she communicates, in one word, via the little t-shirt you are wearing, a powerful message of what she desires for you.
Hi Little Carvell,
First, the picture of you and your mom is beautiful — I remember it well. Secondly, the letter to your mom touched me deeply. Your mother was her mother’s daughter and my sister.
Aunt Beverly