A Letter for Eli: Seeing Young, Black Men

His dreads swung just below his ears against his darkened skin. He was dangerous, a threat to all mankind. Standing 6ft and towering aggressively above me, he was from Chi-Raq,

The world said.

I saw his navy, blue braces when he smiled and the way he peeked shyly between each dread. I knew he’d been adopted. That his brother is a rapper. That he loves Home Run Inn Pizza, and he refers to Chicago as “The Land.” That he jovially walked up to me and said, “The Land finally got something. LaQuan McDonald can rest.”

I met him.

It was August. He strolled into my English class, a freshman student, fresh out of Illinois and newly introduced to Mississippi mosquitoes. He was scratching, as I called his name. He offered a stiff nod in response, his headphones still dangling from his ears. I asked him if the mosquitoes had welcomed him with open arms. He jerked his head upwards again. I introduced myself as being born in Chicago; he removed an earbud. I could hear the muffled sound of music bouncing from his shoulder. He asked me which chicken was better: Uncle Remus’ or Harold’s. I said Uncle Remus. He silenced his music and pulled the remaining bud from his ear. “Oh, you different, different,” he said. He shook his head and leaned back in his desk, a small smirk in his lips. “West side, huh?” He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at me intently.

I had his attention.

He wrote a narrative essay about his childhood with details that made me cry. He would visit me during office hours, opting to sit at a desk in my office and work on his essay, music blasting aggressively in his ears. When the music stopped, I’d look up. He had a question. “How’s this sound?” He’d read his thesis statement, and I’d give feedback. He sat there for 30 minutes, then an hour. I’d begin to pack my bag to leave, but he was immoveable. “I have to get this last sentence out, or I’ll lose it, Ms. Parks.”

I lost him.

He excelled in composition I. I was surprised to find him in my Composition II. He held both arms up when I walked in, “Family!” He yelled. I cracked a joke; he laughed, peering through his dreads. He completed research on Earth, Wind, and Fire; his conclusion involved an out-of-the-blue split in front of the class. His classmates applauded loudly; I laughed more than I had in months. Before he left, he said, “That presentation was better than my first one wasn’t it?” I replied, “Much better.” He would come to my office weeks later to tell me he was leaving and attending a college in the Land; I’d hug him and tell him I was really going to miss him. He would ask, “Really?” And I would assure him with a smile and a stiff nod saying, “Please just take care of yourself. You’re already great, young man.” He would smile.

He would depart from campus.

On the day of his departure, I would email him saying: “Eli, I didn’t get to see you before you left. Safe travels and I wish you all the best. We will miss you.” He would respond saying, “I’m coming to say goodbye.” He would come and go. When he left, my tears would flow.

He needed help.

“How do you format a block quote again?” His email would read roughly two months after his departure. My heart leapt as I responded with instructions. He would ask how classes were, and I’d tell him, “Not the same since you left, family!” He would promise to stay in touch, and I would utter a small prayer that he wouldn’t be seen as Chi-Raq: Dangerous, Aggressive, a Threat. LaQuan.

Now, months later, I’m hoping he has the skills he needs to navigate his world as a young, Black man. A young, Black man with dreads. A young, Black man in Chicago. More importantly, a young, Black man who for a minute was most concerned with losing a sentence before he’d written it down. And here I am worried that something may cause him to lose his life before he’s had the chance to plan it. I need his future teachers, law enforcement, the world to see him as I do: Ready to learn. Thoughtful. Valuable. Genuine. Already great. Loved.