—Jesuit-Nativity, Fall 2016 we begin class with prayer and a conversation about Philando
Castile and Alton Sterling and I think, perhaps this time I can play God and provide them an answer. we have come back to August and Minneapolis reeks of blood and spook like Ferguson, Baton Rouge is this summer’s Chicago and at this Jesuit middle school, we have not celebrated the feast of St. Claver or Xavier, but the Black body mutilated is a refrain that loops like a glorification at the end of all our seasons. this morning, 7th grade is a room full of brown eyes glowering in my direction, each uniformed body a column of names to be remembered, each beautiful Black boy still first-week-of-school fresh with low fade with dreadlock with sponge twist with hi-top with box cut with French braid with fro-hawk with even fade— with anything tapered and growing naturally, anything the others haven’t figured out yet. and when the tallest 7th grader, a 12-year-old who, in the dark, might be mistaken for 20,
asks during group discussion, if police only kill Black people, I say no one will declare this a genocide. no one will declare this a genocide. no one will declare this a genocide * will declare this a genocide.
this a genocide. no one will declare
this.
Black people. no.
police kill
during discussion
mistake a 12-year-old,
anything they haven’t figured out
anything growing faded hawked braided cut topped twisted locked
firstweekofschoolfresh, each beautiful Black boy still, a column of names to be remembered. each uniformed body glowering in my direction, eyes at the end. this morning, loops the Black body mutilated, a refrain,
the feast not celebrated. and Baton Rouge is Chicago blood-spook like Ferguson
and Minneapolis provide them an answer. play God. Castile Alton Sterling and I, we begin class.