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I remember twelve.

Twelve was sixth grade, my first year of middle school. Twelve was my first school dance, standing to the side by the doors as Green Day echoed off the walls of the auditorium. Twelve was wondering how and why White folks would or could dance to this stuff when “Rosa Parks” and Destiny’s Child existed. Twelve was my first crush, Kourtney Sherman; I tried to sit behind her in Ms. Muniz’s Lifeskills class, but assigned seating thwarted my best laid plans. Twelve was teaching my White friends the lyrics to “My Name Is…” and “Can I Get A…”. Twelve was my first year at a school with an honor roll. Twelve was making that honor roll for the first time, and enjoying the benefits — movies, pizza parties — that accompanied that distinction. Twelve was noticing that none of the other kids in my honor roll parties looked like me.

Twelve was pickup three-on-three basketball tournaments on the blacktop. Robert Johnson was Shaq, Josh Gipson was Kobe, I was Derek Fisher. Twelve was being uncool enough to think Derek Fisher was an acceptable person to be in a pickup game, but good enough to make everyone else respect my decision. Twelve was the pain of making the final round of cuts for the sixth/seventh grade basketball team, only to be left off the final roster. Twelve was the confidence of knowing that that setback would be corrected at thirteen. Twelve was going to church and playing basketball in Vallejo, then going back to my mostly lily-white, upper-middle-class school and hearing “Vallejo kid” used as an epithet.

Twelve was the last year of baseball on the little fields, the year children from across the globe come together for their chance at glory in the Little League World Series. Twelve was the year I came into my own and baseball became fun, playing second base next to Marco Iacono, my “Blackanese cousin”, at shortstop, as we turned the most double plays in the league. Twelve was standing by the dugout after a game and seeing both the father and uncle of one of the kids on the Cubs call Robert Johnson’s dad a nigger, in front of Robert. Twelve was seeing Robert’s dad get angry, laughed at, threatened. Twelve was seeing Robert’s dad get censured by the league’s board.

Twelve was meeting up at summer school with my friends — I because my parents couldn't send me to camp, my friends because they were required to attend. Twelve was stopping off at the store before classes started to buy candy or donuts with my paper route money, and getting frisked by security every time I left. Twelve was creating a mental checklist of each place on my body the guards would pat, and laughing to myself as they hit every spot, in order, without fail — a gallows humor game of “Operation”. Twelve was being too straight-edge to even consider stealing anything. Twelve was stopping off at the store after class with those same friends to buy some cap guns and cap bombs to run around the park with.

I remember twelve.

I also remember seven. Seven was being too terrified to move a muscle as I watched Maurice — the other Black kid in my grade — run around and push a kid after the freeze bell signaled the end of recess. Seven was getting detention after Maurice ran around and pushed a kid after the freeze bell signaled the end of recess. Seven was the realization that no amount of patient explanation or less-patient angry-crying would change the fact that Maurice and I were indistinguishable and interchangeable in the eyes of the people who mattered.

I remember eighteen. Eighteen was leaving home for college, my first step on the road to becoming the next Johnnie Cochran. Eighteen was recording a rap album in my dorm room, and making Dean’s List with a 4.0 G.P.A. Eighteen was working at Target, and getting stopped by the police every single time I walked home from work, sitting on the curb with my hands behind my back while Fresno PD ran my license for open warrants.

I remember twenty-two. Twenty-two was scoring in the 96th percentile on the G.R.E. and accepting a scholarship to attend graduate school in Chicago. Twenty-two was driving from my parents’ house in the East Bay to San Diego to visit my best friend, and getting pulled over seven times on the way there, pulled out of my car once. Twenty-two was being afraid of driving back, but having no other way of getting home.

I remember what it was like to have promise, limitless potential, and the knowledge that, with a little elbow grease, I could be Johnnie Cochran, or Colin Powell, or Ken Griffey, Junior. I remember innocence, and optimism, and the unbridled and unrestricted joy of being alive without responsibility, doing what I wanted when I wanted, and knowing that life would always be like this. I remember freedom.

I didn’t know Tamir Rice, or Aiyana Stanley-Jones, or Mike Brown, or Darrien Hunt, but I remember what it was like to be them. I will remember their stories. I will remember their lives. And I will remember their names.

Originally published at loficollective.com.