“What’s that?” I ask, seeing something in Lou’s hand. My mom holds up an ultrasound photo.
“What the hell? Did you steal that from my file?”
Lou grins. “What? I wanted it. It’s not like you’ve ever given me one. It’s my grandson.” She looks down at the picture with such adoration that I’m seized by a fleeting hope. Is it possible, is there a chance that Lou would be a better grandma than she was a mom? I’m angry at myself that I even allow this hope to creep into my heart.
“Give me that.” I hold out my palm, and Lou lays the photo in it. I trace my finger over the dark shadows. Now that I know to look for it, I can just make out his little wee-wee.
Chase.
Chase.
Chase.
A mantra and a prayer.
Chapter Seven RILEY
There’s a boy in that coffin.
Even with Justin’s picture blown up poster-size on an easel behind the casket, it’s almost impossible to believe there’s a child inside, a small body trapped in a wooden box soon to be buried beneath layers and layers of dirt.
Through speaker after speaker, I’ve tried to make sense of that. I look up to meet Justin’s eyes in his photo. This one is less staged than the official school portrait Tamara gave to the media—the one where he looks like he’s trying to be grown and serious and not let a smile crack his lips. In this photo, his hair is longer, a fade turning into an Afro. He looks unguarded, happy, with an adorable goofy grin wide enough to showcase the straw-size gap between his two front teeth. Like the coffin, I can’t bear to look at the picture for long, or the roomful of sorrowful faces. The only other choice is to stare down at my lap. According to the program, the next speaker, now walking to the podium, is the last one. He’s a boy, a little younger than Justin. I recognize him from Tamara’s living room. He climbs the few steps to the raised platform, approaches the podium that stands in front of the coffin. In a shaky voice, he introduces himself as Malik, one of Justin’s cousins.
“He has a lot of cousins, but I’m his favorite.” He giggles nervously at the obviously planned joke, and there’s a scattered titter throughout the room, hundreds of mourners happy to grab on to a moment of lightness.
“I dunno what to say… So I’m gonna read a poem Justin wrote for English class.” He smooths a piece of paper on the podium with one hand, then the other. His spine grows at least an inch taller as he draws in a breath. His voice wobbles again when he starts to read.
What do you see when you see me?
Have you made up your mind about who I can be?
You could get to know me if you tried
You could see what I’m like inside
I am made of blood, bones, and muscles too.
So how can you say I am less than you?
I have so many dreams, even at my age.
Let me be free, don’t put me in a cage.
Watch what I can do.
I bite the tip of my tongue when Malik breaks down on the final line, written by a boy proudly staking a claim on his future, and who was then so cruelly robbed of it. Watch what I can do. I do look around now at the grief-stricken faces, and my gaze settles on Tamara. Justin’s mother grips a tissue in her clenched fist. Otherwise she focuses straight ahead, tearless, stoic. I know that look. I’ve seen it on Gigi’s face and those of many of the other church ladies, sometimes even my own Momma’s—the look of women who have weathered so many brutal blows, whose scars have hardened into an armor of steely resolve. Now there ain’t no point in crying about it. How many times has Gigi said that to me, after lost races or unrequited crushes? Hasn’t it been the mantra of Black women for generations? What choice do we have except to get on with it already?
I watch Malik return to his seat, furtively wiping at his face, and I have to swallow hard against the wrenching sight. He walks over and practically falls into Tamara’s lap for a hug, leaving a dark spot of tears on her blouse. Wes reaches over and envelops Tamara’s frail frame. The Dwyers are sitting in a long line in the front row, all touching one another, each holding a hand, leaning on a shoulder, wrapped in an arm. It would be nice to have Wes’s strong arm comforting me, or to have a hand to hold. Shaun was supposed to come with me today, but he had a moving gig he couldn’t miss. Pastor Price is the other person I expected to know, and he deferred to the family’s home church minister, who’s presiding over the service.
I remind myself that I’m here to work anyway, and make a few notes in my notepad. The last line of the poem will be the ideal opening shot for tonight’s package. I jot down a cue for the edit room later and start a mental list of other b-roll images that might work. This is easier, being a “reporter” instead of a “mourner.” Focusing on my job helps me to push aside the complicated sorrow. It’s a privilege to be here. Tamara has allowed me access, and I want to be worthy of it. Initially, she’d said she wanted the service to be small and private, and while I’ll go to great lengths for a story, convincing a grieving mother to allow a camera crew into her child’s funeral would have been too far. Then a few days ago, when I called to see if she needed anything—I swear my motivations were pure—she asked me if I thought it would make a difference if people saw the funeral, if she opened it to the public.
“Will they remember him? Just a little longer?” she wanted to know. “All the hashtags and signs and the T-shirts. T-shirts! I appreciate the support, but it’s getting to be so it’s not even about Justin anymore,” Tamara continued. “And the violence, the looting, the fires. He wouldn’t have wanted that.”
Protesters have gathered every single night on the art museum steps, and there was another spontaneous march down Broad Street this morning in honor of the funeral. It all remained peaceful this time, but the demands for accountability on the part of the police are mounting, along with the tensions. She’s right—it feels so much bigger than Justin now.
“Maybe getting to be a part of his funeral will help people heal. Maybe it will help to refocus on Justin.”
“Yes. It feels to me like the entire city is grieving, and I think people would appreciate the opportunity to mourn with you. Justin’s story has captured the attention of folks here in Philly and beyond, and people want to join you in honoring him. Your son isn’t another victim,” I said to her. “He’s Justin, and it’s important that the public sees that so they’re able to care about him as an individual. The only way change can happen is if people care.”
After all, it’s too easy for people to numb themselves to these headlines until they start to tune them right out. Yeah, yeah, another Black boy is gone, which one was that one again? St. Louis? Baltimore?
I couldn’t help adding the next part. “I’d be honored to cover the service if that’s something you want.”
In the end, Tamara decided to open the memorial to the public. A few days later, she even issued a public statement inviting both Kevin and Travis Cameron, but I couldn’t imagine they’d dare show their faces. I was mystified as to why she’d invited them. To make them squirm? To be forced into some sort of public reckoning? Despite the fact that the spectacle of their presence would make for good TV, I’m relieved they had the good sense to stay away, and imagine she is too.