A Black Man’s Thoughts

My breathing was laborious and heavy in the cool and dark night. My footsteps pounded hard against the white pavement as I tried desperately to flee from the white cop, chasing me like how a lion chases its helpless prey.

All I wanted was a normal life. I craved for familial love, but was greeted by an empty house instead, mostly because my dad was incarcerated for selling drugs more than once, and my mom was so preoccupied with three jobs that she never had time to look after me. She could only scrape up enough food to feed my hungry mouth, and hurriedly kiss my head, assuring me that when I was older, she would give me anything I wanted. But even now, I never got anything more than food and my mom’s hurried kisses. Not even a birthday present.

I dreamed about living in a nice suburban neighborhood, but due to my family’s financial situation, I lived in the ghettos. How would you feel living in a place where one could barely go outside without encountering a group of druggies trying to sell you weed, and where there were shootings everywhere?

I hoped to graduate from high school and college, so I could get a professional career later on. But I was forced to drop out of high school. My family was in dire need of cash, and so I got myself a job at McDonald’s instead, and earn enough money to support me and my mother. Might as well sacrifice my goals and dreams for the greater good, right? But I had health problems, such as asthma and diabetes, that prevented me from working.

I couldn’t afford a visit to the doctor when I was younger, so my health only deteriorated. I could’ve secured myself a decent job if only I had the money to solve my health problems, and not ignore them, assuring myself that it would go away eventually. But who could tell me otherwise, especially since I was so young and ignorant, and without any parental guidance?

I started selling drugs because the drug gang that was lurking around my block at night said that the drug trade was way more lucrative a safe-entry level job. Since I really needed the money, especially with a wife and kids, I got involved in the drug business. It’s not like I wanted to do it. I hated drugs, and detested them.

Now 10 years later, I still sell illegal drugs. I was able to snag a job as a construction worker at one point, but my asthma problem was becoming so bad that I was unable to do any job that required any physical activity.

God, I know this is not what I should have done. But one should understand why I did it, don’t you? Why I messed up in the middle of my life, and decided to take the risks?

Honestly, why did my life turn out so wrong for me?

Now I am running away from the white people that feel it is their duty to handle us blacks for our misdeeds. Who gave them the right to do so, the people who were blessed to live in the nicer neighborhoods, and protected from the harsh realities that I had to face? They were the ones who were spoiled rotten by their parents, and didn’t have to worry much about money or affording an education. They were the ones who could enter the high-paying professions. They could never understand the plight and struggles that we had to go through. They thought that creating lower-class ghettos would help us, and that treating us in a civilized manner would show their sincerity, but all I see are a bunch of people clouded by biased attitudes and racial superiority, and who lack true understanding of the black issues.

The cop interrupted my thoughts. “Stop running, or I will shoot!” he yelled. I cursed under my breath. I stopped in my tracks, and slowly turned around to face my predator. I saw the cop holding a gun, aimed at my head. I closed my eyes, and waited for what was to happen. Before I closed my eyes, however, I thought I saw a slight lowering of his gun.