One Black Man’s Perspective

The calls keep coming. Text messages and emails as well. Parking-lot conversations flow. Talks happen between exercise sets.

Anger has sprouted. Tears have flowed. Yelling has followed whispers forced through gritted teeth and pursed lips.

“How are you not angry as hell right now?” one friend said.

“This is crazy! You’re consoling me. I’m sorry! This is so eff’d up! I should be supporting you not the other way around!” another said.

“It is not your job to educate me or caretake your white friends … You don’t need to spend energy teaching white folks how to understand what you’ve experienced all your life. We can go do the research and do the work,” another friend said.

“Milo any of those could have been you. I don’t know what I’d do if that happened to you,” another said.

I could continue with those.

Lately, my emotions have gone from anger to sadness. Frustration to militancy. Bafflement to compassion. Numbness.

Long-time friends. Colleagues. Athletes. Acquaintances. They want to know how I feel. They want to know how to support me. They tell me they love me. They tell me they are going to be by my side.

The attention has been equal parts overwhelming, gratifying, eye-opening, sobering and…