Open Letter to my Adult Son

by Debbie Smith, as told to Susan Perloff

Dear Quincy,

We’ve talked about this before, Son, and I need to remind you. Please don’t wear hooded shirts and baggy pants any more. Especially not in dark colors. Give your old clothes away, and we’ll get you new ones. If you dress like all the other young black men, I fear that you, too, could be a victim. I couldn’t bear that.

It’s not just clothes, Son. Stop hanging on street corners, day or night. Don’t spend time with crowds of strangers. Always know who you’re with. Some people who claim to be friends are not really your friends. You remember what happened to your Uncle Wayne, my brother, even though you were only seven at the time.

Uncle Wayne was shot and murdered just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. After he brought Grandma home from her eye surgery, a friend – or someone Wayne thought was a friend – asked for help with his car. They went out to buy car parts, then went to a mini-market for a snack, not knowing the store had just been robbed.

As soon as they entered, the robbers shot Wayne and another man, who lay on the ground as if he were dead. Wayne was dead. My baby brother Wayne, the strong one, the good one, gone. Zap. Dead.

Do you remember what happened? Maybe you don’t, and maybe I need to tell you more often. I was at work, and my sister, Aunt Jacqueline, called me at the home where I was cleaning. She said, “Wayne got shot,” and hung up. I stood still. Two minutes later, she called back, and I said, “How bad?,” and she said, “Really, really bad.”

She called a third time and said, “He’s dead.” I was washing the windowsill. I dropped the bucket of water all over the woman’s bed. I ran out, ran past the bus that was at the corner and ran to the Broad Street subway. I wasn’t thinking, I was just running. I hope you never have that awful feeling, but some day you might.

Before that moment I never knew anyone who was murdered. You never imagine murder can happen in your family. You hear about murder on television, and you always feel bad for the other person, but you never imagine feeling it yourself. I rushed to get home to make sure that Grandma was OK.

Amazingly, when the client I was cleaning for got home, she knew I would never run out and leave such a mess. She figured there must be a problem. So she drove to our house to find me. After that she came every single day until the funeral and sat, mostly with Grandma. You cannot imagine how good she made us feel.

I want to protect you, Son. What panics me most is not having Wayne’s murder solved. Not having any answers. Always, every minute, I want to know who killed him. “Wrong place at the wrong time” is not a satisfying answer.

Frankly I am not as fearful for your sisters as for you, a young African-American man with no particular job skills. Not that there are enough good jobs, anyway. Your sisters have done well at school – one graduated from a trade school and the other has nearly finished her college courses.

But you. If you had a job, you wouldn’t be hanging out. I am always afraid that one day you’ll think you don’t have enough money for a coat or a car – and you might steal for it.

I may never have told you this, Son, but I’ll tell you now. You know I don’t like to go to parties? I never liked parties, ever. When I was 15, before I came to the United States, I went to a party with my three brothers. A man I didn’t know wanted me to dance. I said I was tired, which I was, and it was crowded and hot, and I said, politely, that I didn’t want to dance just now.

He said, “You’re taking up a seat at this party. Are you too good to dance with me?” I said No, and he smacked me on the cheek. I never wanted to go to a party again, not even in my own home. So I live in constant terror of the kinds of crazy people you might meet at parties, or while hanging with your friends.

Wherever you go, be smart. Sort right from wrong – which I have taught you.

I’ve been thinking about this even more for the last month. You know why. Our family friend O’Brien, who lived in New York, came to Philadelphia for a visit. Sitting on the porch of his new stepmom, enjoying the mild evening, waiting for his brother, wearing dark pants and a dark hoodie – he was shot and killed.

Our cousin Norma has seen many people murdered. She’s learned to protect herself. I have not.

I live my life in terror. It got more serious after Uncle Wayne died. I am afraid to go out when it’s dark. I am afraid to be in an elevator with other people. It’s limiting to be afraid, Quincy. Holds you back.

Don’t be afraid, Son. Be smart. Find a trade school. Find a job. Dress for the interview the way you dress for church. Be a man, not a statistic. And please, lose that hoodie.

Debbie Smith, a native of Guyana, cleans homes. Susan Perloff writes and teaches adults to write.

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