my kids are home, safe, and we had a lovely dinner of smothered steak (with vidalia onion & mushrooms) accompanied by my son's beloved mashed potatoes. (no peas tonight--I didn't wanna argue)
I am so grateful tonight, and exceedingly proud of my son's behavior throughout the entire ordeal. When asked for identifying marks on the assailants, he frankly admitted that he could see them in school tomorrow and not know the difference. He even explained street nuance behavior to the police, explaining that he was trying to get away, not identify.
That fact didn't stop the police from stopping every black person in a ten block radius. And yes, we were put in the back of an undercover car, and chauffered from place to place for possible identification.
The first guy in cuffs we encountered had to be about aged fifty. My son was disgusted too, protesting, "I told you, they were YOUNG." As the officer went to relay that info to the other officers in attendance, my son asked me, "isn't that profiling, Mom?"
I shushed him. (I don't have the first idea of what police methods are, and actually, it was my first instinct to question anyone and everyone remotely resembling my son's description.)
"But I feel sorry for him."
Maybe I shouldn't have shushed him.
But not once in this entire incident did my son assume a posture of victim, even though it would be completely understandable for him to do so.
Relieved, and proud.
And so heartachingly grateful.
I learn from my children...and thanks all for listening.
And John? Yanno? I say this without this least bit of animosity, but sometimes you come so close to describing me in your analogies that I squirm.
The only difference here is that I was fourteen, and I didn't have to explain my bruises to anyone. No one ever asked.
No one was home.
(And that's what I meant about letting things go.)
Today was my mother's birthday and I got the chance to produce a grandson for her, a second time.
I think so.
Thanks all, just for being here.