Two years ago from today, a young Bro boy was shot. Walking through the cold rain, a toy car in his hand that he was to bring home to his little brother. Walking home to his family, who he loved and cared for every day of his life. Hands numb from the cold, shirt drenched from the rain, he kept walking, only three blocks to go now. Only three blocks to another day with his family, three blocks to freedom of the real world.
Two years ago from today a son died, his mother in the kitchen cooking dinner, awaiting his arrival. She had asked him to buy something for his brother on his way home, had given him five dollars to spend at the local pharmacy. "A toy car," she had said, "He likes cars."
Two years ago from today a number was added to another, a statistic was raised, and another was lowered. A child was forgotten, but remembered, words changed and remained the same. Newspapers remained silent, whispering only of the fake tears of the white man.
Two years ago from today another young Bro boy received some money. Just enough to buy drugs to last him through the week. His gun was his living, drugs were his life. Anything else was less important, took second place on the podium. Two years ago that podium was sullied, covered with the blood of another young Bro boy, wiped clean with the tears of his mother.
Two years ago from today a friend died, a friend of mine, someone who I will remember for all of my life. Someone who many others never knew, one young boy who was just another monday to the white people of the world, just another monday that is no longer a problem. But thats not what he was. He was a doctor, he was a lawyer, he was a policeman. He was a father and a brother and a friend. But now he isn't, he never got the chance to be.
And two years pass, two more years a young white boy gets to spend with his loving family, two more years the young Bro boy gets to smoke joints in the bathroom instead of taking his classes.
Two more years for dreams to be forgotten. Two more years for dreams to be remembered.
