“I’m Not Afraid of Death”: A Conversation with My 13 year-old Brother About Police Officers and The Promise of Heaven

Last night, like any other night, I found myself in the kitchen cooking dinner for my family. It’s a therapeutic thing for me and I’m convinced that it’s my single most important form of showing my family that I love them. 

I was in the middle of chopping some Italian parsley when my 13 year old brother came into the kitchen. He’s a basketball STAN. So, a lot of our conversations surround LeBron James and how he’s the greatest human to ever grace the National Basketball Association. As his tall, but slim, frame came around the corner of our kitchen’s pantry, he noticed I was watching “Chopped Beat Bobby Flay.” He didn’t understand it. “You know it’s a game on right now, right,” he asked me in his newly deepened, raspy but full voice. “Oh, yeah. Who is it...Utah?” I responded. “You can change it.” 

The conversation that followed the change of the channel started off light-hearted. He told me how he was upset that AD didn’t get Defensive Player of the Year. He couldn’t believe how folks picked Giannis over Davis. He called it “Politics.” Although his team wasn’t playing, our convo quickly reverted to LeBron. After all, that’s what prevented Bron from having more hardware...league “politics.” We traded our disdain for LeBron not having more MVP trophies. I asked him who his MVP pick was for this season and of course....LeBron had his vote. We talked about the MVP voting process and how the NBA only allows fans to vote to make us feel included but the journalists’ and the insiders’ votes REALLY mattered.

Amid our convo, a sound bite came up on the TV. I’m almost certain it was about Jacob Blake...and then the conversation took a weird turn. 

As he reached into the snack box for a granola bar, he blatantly asked me, “Are you afraid of the police?” 

We’ve talked about social injustice. We’ve talked about the plight of Black folk. We’ve talked about why we’re voting for Biden. We’ve talked about why it’s important to work twice as hard. We’ve talked about black history. We’ve talked about why “black lives matter“ has to be an actual statement. We’ve talked about the facts, but we never really talked about our feelings. 

It felt weird to be put on the spot about my feelings, but I was willing to stand in them in that moment with him. 

“No, I’m not afraid of cops.” 

He couldn’t believe my answer...but I understood his shock. 

Herein stands a black boy who has seen black men gunned down in the street. Not because it’s right outside his window...or because that’s what happens in his neighborhood...or because it’s happened to somebody he knows...or because he watches violent movies. Nope. He knows it because it happens. He knows it because it’s a reality. He knows it because my parents are forthright enough to let him know that the comfort he feels in the house as a black son, the baby of the family...the one who gets spoiled by his parents and older siblings, is much, much different than what he’ll feel outside of our home. 

So, it should make sense why this 13-year-old black child couldn’t understand why his vocally, pro-black big sister wasn’t afraid.

I didn’t even have to ask him how he felt. He quickly let me know.

“I am. As a black person...a black man, well boy, I’m afraid,” he said while expressing his feelings but trying to correctly establish his manhood status.

I wanted to say, “Man! There’s no reason to be afraid. Don’t get into trouble and you’ll be straight.”

...but if I said that then I’d have had to create a rationale where there is none for the murder of Breonna Taylor, Tamir Rice, Trayvon Martin, Philando Castile, and all the other black folks who died just minding their own business. I couldn’t truthfully tell him that.

“Well, I’m not afraid...but that doesn’t mean I don’t have a reason to be.” That’s what I REALLY said.

He was still shocked. So, I tried to explain further.

“I don’t know. I’m just not afraid of dying. I know it’s bad to equate police officers with death, but...death just doesn’t scare me anymore. So, I’m not afraid of them,” I said as I rinsed off some radishes.

“You know I gotta read a book about that. Malc told me about it. This girl dies or something and then comes back and says that she’s not afraid of it anymore...”

...and now I was shocked. 

In what conversation was my 13 year-old black brother talking to his 14 year-old black friend about death...let alone a book about not being afraid of it. Between trading arguments about why Lebron is better than Iverson or Kobe...or vice versa....when did they have time to talk about death? Does he talk about death with his white friends?

He started to explain the book to me, but I couldn’t get beyond the fact that he was talking to me about it.

“Well, the way I see it. God controls when I’ll die. If He says that’s the way I’m supposed to go out...well,” I began to explain, “if He allows me to go out that way,” I said in an effort to correct myself knowing that there’s a difference between God willing something and God permitting it, “...then so be it. At least I know Jesus, you know?”

His response was a poetic trifecta of faith, thoughtfulness, and innocence.

“I guess you’re right. There is Heaven.”

Hmmmm. 

In any other instance, I would’ve walked away sad that my baby brother had to face this reality. I would’ve finished cooking with a deep sense of angst that he would have to navigate through this cruel world. 

...but, much like the paradoxical history of this conversation, I didn’t. 

I stood their proud that my little baby brother KNEW that God, in all of his splendor, had a place for us, a place worth looking towards...a place worth hoping for....a place worth believing exists even while standing in our own disbelief or fear.

He reminded me of what I tried, in essence, to remind him. 

The sufferings of our present time are not worthy to be compared to what is to come.

H E A V E N

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not the type of person who thinks our only answers will come in Heaven. I’m not that naive. If God is a big God, then His “bigness” should be felt on Earth, too. I still believe in fighting injustices. I still believe in being vocal about the ailments of this falling world. Trust, I’d have fainted a long time ago if I didn’t believe to see the goodness of the Lord IN THE LAND OF THE LIVING!!! 

...but there’s something about the promise of Heaven. There’s something about the promise of a better tomorrow that doesn’t make me fear today. There’s something about the promise of death being defeated that prevents me from being afraid of it.

Listen, everyone’s trying to cope and protect themselves mentally after seeing the consistent killings of ourselves. Let’s be honest. A little piece of us dies each time one of our brothers or sisters or elders dies by the hands of a sick, sick individual...but even in the midst of all of that, my suggestion is this: Look up.

Keep fighting, but look up.

Keep marching, but look up.

Keep screaming, but please remember to look up.

As one of our elders reminded us before she had her own encounter with death, “just like moons and like suns, with the certainty of tides...just like hopes springing high,” we will rise. I’ll even add this...be it here or there, if we believe in Jesus Christ....if we accept him as our Lord and Savior....we will have the opportunity to one day rise.

Look and live, folks.

Look and live.