photo from Alexis Franklin/@alexis_art
This morning I stopped at Starbucks for a quick breakfast, a protein box, and a hot green tea. As I left, my mind randomly remembered something; the Bible stashed away in my trunk. You know how your brain does, recalls one thing, that makes you remember another thing, and then you are led down the rabbit hole of thought before you know it. Since I began driving on my own, I’ve always kept a Bible somewhere in the rear of my cars. I once had this compact Bible with metallic silver gilded pages and a mauve colored leatherette cover. That Bible slid back and forth in the rear window of my car for years. The sun eventually faded its color. I’m not sure what happened to that Bible.
I also had a medium-sized black covered Bible, with a million study notes in my handwriting throughout the margins of its pages. That Bible also journeyed many miles with me. I’m not sure what happened to that one either. I’ve owned less than a handful of cars in my life, a navy blue Escort, pastel sea green colored Ford Contour, and a navy blue Nissan Altima (blue is my favorite color). Every single one has stored a Bible for every mile I’ve ever driven. And that didn’t change when I bought my current Audi truck.
I no longer had the rear window for the Bible to slide back and forth in, so I stashed it in the trunk. The Bible in my truck right now is from my mother. It’s a full-sized KJV study Bible tucked away in a dark brown zippered nylon case with the Christian fish symbol etched in a faux leather rectangle on one side. Jotted throughout its pages are red-inked notes in my mother’s cursive handwriting. There are even some old individually wrapped lifesaver peppermint candies that she left in there—a reminder of black church culture. Next to my Bible are jumper cables and a wooden baseball bat with a thick metal rod running through its core. Brian gave me this bat years ago to keep under my car seat for a little “extra safety.”
Two Bibles and a gun. That’s what the cops found when they pulled my mom over in her 1970 red Mustang on Schoolcraft and Wyoming in the D. My uncle had outrun some police and made it back home to tell about it. My mom happened to be visiting that day, and so was already there with my aunt and cousins. Somewhere along with the visit, she found herself surrounded by cops, three cars who had followed my uncle back to his house. With their itchy hands on gun holsters, my mom bargained with them to keep the peace. My uncle had refused to leave unless my mom could come with him. So the plan was for my mom to follow them in her car to the precinct.
They were less than a mile from the house when they signaled for my mom to pull over. They asked her to step out of her car. They gave her some bogus story about her car tags (which were still from Florida because she had just moved to Detroit), but she obliged. They asked her to back away from her car as they searched it. “I know what is in my car…” She told them that she was watching them because she didn’t want them planting anything on her. That was forty-five years ago, but it could of as well happened yesterday.
They found my mom’s 22 pistol stashed in the glove compartment. She had gotten it in Florida for “extra safety” while working the midnight shift at the hospital. They also found two Bibles, one on her dashboard and one in her rear window. My mom said the cop looked at her and said something to the matter of “what kind of woman has two Bibles and a gun in her car?” I chuckle because I feel like my mother wrote “Savage” forty-five years ago just off of this. I can imagine my mom standing there, 5’7, all of maybe a buck twenty-five, big black hair, stern. They took my mom’s pistol because she didn’t have a permit. They took my uncle on to the precinct, off Grand River.
My mom will be 72 years old in a couple of months, and she still rides with the Bible in her car. She will tell you; it’s her protection. I’ve always carried Bibles around in my car because of her, because of this very story. It’s another way for me to ask God to protect me and those who are with me. I need His protection.
I don’t have a 22 pistol in the glove compartment, but I do have a steel rod bat that is always with me. By the way, my mom probably wants me to clarify that she is not a vigilante. I wouldn’t try her though.
Anyway, that’s my long drawn out segue to my thinking about condition and protection. The past few days have pushed me back into a state where my stomach becomes uneasy, trying to digest disgust, anger, pain, frustration, and empathy. I’ve been referencing Claudia Rankine’s 2015 New York Times article a lot lately, “The Condition of Black Life Is One of Mourning.” Here I am again, knots in my stomach thinking about what our little black boys face because of someone else’s superiority complex. The rampant sickness of racism is so bold and shameless. Privilege has girdled it. And so as Claudia Rankine said five years ago, the condition of black life is one of mourning. And may I add, disgust, and anger, and pain, and frustration.
Lord hear the groaning of your people. Watch over us and see what has been done to us in this land. Promise to bring us out of our condition, into a land flowing with milk and honey. Until then, I’ll keep Your Word with me, and my bat.
P.S. On Raising a Black Man in America… and The Other America…
