Botham Jean. Names. Black.

I said Botham Jean's name for the first time out loud today. The first time. I read it. But I never let his name out my mouth. Maybe I thought I could save it for later and it wouldn't be true. Maybe I was afraid I would accidently say my own son's name. Or your boy's name. There are so many names. There are so many reasons to be afraid. But I have to hang on to hope. Don't I? Don't I have to? Because I sure feel like I'm doing something wrong here. Because I am losing my grip. Hope should be easier to hold onto. Botham Jean. Botham Jean. I keep thinking I could spell it wrong and he won't be dead. I could mispronounce it and he will still be alive. In his own apartment. Minding his own business. What business do we have with business anymore anyway? What good is business to mind if your life can be taken away just like that? So what do I do with this? What do I do with this anger? What do I do with this fear? What about my son, my nephew, my nieces, the neighbor's children? What about them when they are playing video games or doing homework or talking on the phone in their own homes? Minding their business? What about this hate in me that is starting to grow? Do I get it checked out? Where do I go? Do I keep my son locked in this apartment? Because even apartments aren't safe. What is the talk now? How should it go? If a policeman or woman comes through the door...then what? Sing a song? Show your teeth? What? Somebody better tell me something. My son has to walk past the police station to go to work. Should I tell him to go the other way? Somebody better tell me something. Somebody better preach a word that feels good to me. Something I can hold on to. Somebody better something.