The field negro:
So there I am sitting in "gun court", watching and listening to some cases before mine is called; as young black male after young black male are being brought up from the Criminal Justice Center cell room into court. The circumstances are a little different, but the charges are all pretty much the same. (Hey, it's gun court.) Every one of these young men were found with guns on their person in a very dangerous part of town. Some of them were slinging, and some were just popped in a car stop. But on it goes; charge after charge, plea deals after plea deals, and the beat never stops. Another day on the other side of that Killadelphia murder count. Some will get probation and house arrest, some will get sent to do county or state time, and some will end up back on the streets or in someones funeral home within weeks. Nowhere in the court room is a fucking father, nowhere! There are a few mothers, grandmothers, and girlfriends, but no fucking fathers! Invariably as one of the few men of color in the court room (besides the cops) these defendants always end up giving me the stare down, as if I can now play the role of someone who should have been playing it for the duration of their young lives. I look, but I can't help. Sadly, it's too late now, another young black male lost, a mind already poisoned by the streets, a future already snatched away.
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