There are days where all I want to do is hold away the pain that I see in their eyes, because— that is all I can do. I can’t protect them from the world, I can’t shield them from the pain and evidence of evil they endure, I cannot harness their joy, or wish away anything that happens. But I look at this beautiful child and ask why? 12 years old and he hardly knows much, he is shy, mentoring his best friend who loops him into trouble because he has an inability to deal with the things around him and his vocality inflicts confrontation in which he as the friend, becomes an accomplice for. 12 years old and he fixes broken down bikes for fun, I mean what else can he do in a trodden city to pass the time and stay out of trouble? 12 years old and standing tall at 5′ 11″, meeting confrontation with a GROWN MAN… over a bike. 12 years old and this same man sees him one day, stops his car, brings his pack of friends and jumps him. —-Leaving him beat on the ground with his bike. 12 years old. And I’m angry. Angry that I can’t protect him, and that this atrocity may happen again. I’m thankful that he wasn’t shanked or shot or severely mutilated. Thankful–but angry at the way grown men were grew to become who they are and that the world is cruel. And what can I do? What can I do? Hold him like his mother probably did. Tell him not to lose his years because he is still a kid. But none of that would help. I can only hope that what I have to give means something later on, and that I teach something in his presence, at least before he’s gone. If I could take off the leather I wear and sew it to him I would. If I could lose pieces of me to make any of him better I would. Locks of hair and knowledge, I’d spread it. Especially if it means those tender hearts would stay protected. Please. I plead.
