On Friday morning at about two in the morning, my boy was robbed a gunpoint by men who were boys. Probably no older than 17. They were jumpy, more afraid of him than he was of them.
I called the stolen phone about an hour after it happened; the person who answered and I spoke for over 20 minutes. I wasn't the least bit intimidated, I was angry and apparently so stern in my lecturing that the thief, who identified himself as Keston, thought I was my boy's mother, he kept calling me "ma'am".
Now, I will admit we had a good laugh about that. My mother, a Guidance Officer who sees all the ills youth like Keston face, in particular found it very amusing. One has to cherish the ability to laugh after facing possible death. I cherish that in him. The strength to adapt, to not remain flawed by what life shoves at you.
What I regret is the young life that's going to waste, the child who's carrying a gun and pulling on aggression like a dark cloak in the wee hours of the morning. His aggression protects him from being prey; that much was clear from our conversation.
I could go into details but they aren't important. All I can say is that I am unbelievably thankful that he's alive.
I began this the day after (Sunday) while we vegetated at my house during the day and finished it later while we compared notes via text on the NBA Finals. I'm not sure who she is but I dig her peace. I want her peace to meet you.