He Doesn’t Linger: Processing the Trauma of Black Lives
"How do you explain to others that in our community there is multi-generational trauma that lives in our bones, lives in the desecrated names we refuse to forget?"
Regina Cash-Clark (she/her) is a writer and educator based in central New Jersey. Her writing and research interests have focused on issues related to social justice and equality, and it has always been important to her to share and showcase diverse voices. Currently an associate professor of Journalism at a state college, Cash-Clark’s past professional experience ranges from serving on the editorial staff of Essence magazine to working as a copywriter and a freelance editor. She holds a dual undergraduate degree in Spanish studies and Writing for Telecommunications from Syracuse University, and an MFA in Fiction writing from Sarah Lawrence College.
My 12-year-old walks into the room while I’m watching the news. He’s quiet and lanky, tall for his age and light in complexion, like a young Thurgood Marshall—sans the silky hair. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at the TV screen as I debate whether to switch channels from the disturbing coverage of the Tyre Nichols beating.
It’s Friday evening, and the video footage has just been released. I won’t watch, not more than a minute or two; I can’t. Instead, I listen to commentary as officials in the city of Memphis, and the country at large, brace nervously for the public outcry. Even the reporter, a young Black woman who is covering the story, is overcome with emotion for a moment. She apologizes and composes herself, explaining, “it’s been a long day.” It’s okay, sis, I think to myself. I feel her pain.
“J” seems oblivious at the moment. He doesn’t comment. And I don’t say anything just yet, observing his curious gaze with my lazer-like peripheral vision… But there’s already a knowing about him in this quiet moment, a boy who’s a little too wise beyond his years. Maybe it’s because he has three siblings in front of him. He hears things and knows things. But to my relief, he doesn’t linger, just averts his eyes and moves on to the kitchen to find a snack. He has bought me some time.
For now.
As a Black mom, a regular reckoning of time is a constant vibe—gauging the effects of one of those conversations-we-didn’t-have-but-will…but have to, for his good, his safety—whether I like it or not. Just like when I told his brother to always watch out for men in pickup trucks, especially as a pedestrian. Sorry not sorry, but rednecks love them.
(Don’t judge me. My grandfather and uncle both drove pickups, so I’m not against them, just wary of some of the folks who drive them… like the one who drove the deadly truck that dragged James Byrd Jr., another forgotten Black male victim of hate, to his untimely death back in 1988, a KKK-driven travesty that still haunts me today.)
The truth is, we probably should have spoken about the Tyre Nichols killing then, right then. He probably knew about it already and may have had questions. But the reality is that the trauma was just too heavy for me at that moment. When these stories break, I immediately see him and his two older brothers, even his sister. I feel the danger of their very existence closing in on me, on them, like a deadly panther hovering, toying with its defenseless prey. It gets real.
So I needed time to process it for myself first.
How do you explain to others that in our community there is multi-generational trauma that lives in our bones, lives in the desecrated names we refuse to forget? There is a lasting trauma in senseless death and murder, a communal grief that has followed us from the watery graves sunken beneath abandoned slave ships to the trees that held the battered and “strange fruit” of our ancestors. And those deaths continue. We can only honor them by saying their names: James Byrd, Jr., Trayvon Martin, Sandra Bland, George Floyd, Tyre Nichols. You know those names, and there are more…too many more. But saying them isn’t enough. It doesn’t bring justice. Those names weigh on us, call to us, haunt us…until we can do right by them in some small or greater way. My way has been to write.
It wasn’t until almost a week later that I finally broached the subject, carefully posed the question…
“Have you heard the news story about Tyre Nichols?”
We were sitting in the car just after dropping off two of his older siblings, the twins, at their high school. J is the youngest of four, with two brothers and a sister ahead of him. I knew you’d have to have been living in a bubble or a cocoon to have missed this story. I was sure he’d scrolled past something somewhere at some point. But it was time for us to talk, and for me to fill in the gaps, if there were any.
I pull the car over for a minute so I can give him my full attention. J’s in 7th grade, just old enough to begin searching for his place in the world as a Black boy…just young enough for me to feel like his shield, his protector, against the onslaught of bad news for boys like him, the innocents that we pray will stay that way, at least for a time…the endangered of our human-yet-Black species that we want to see grow old.
I can sense the answer when he drops his head and peers out of his passenger-side window. “Yes.”
What follows is an honest conversation about the tragedy: Shock over the involvement of five Black police officers, reassurance that we have good law enforcement officers in our family and in the world, the overall heaviness of it all. It’s a lot. But, as usual, he shows amazing maturity and insight in talking about the situation.
“I know…” he adds at some point in our conversation, still riddled with disbelief. He gestures his right hand when he speaks, moving it clockwise in the air, as if he’s lassoing a small imaginary moth. I always marvel at his maturity and his natural ability to absorb different elements of a complicated topic. “It’s hard to believe.”
He’s wearing his gym clothes for school: dark blue sweatpants with a matching t-shirt underneath his gray camouflage winter jacket. His hair is medium-short now: a three-inch ‘fro on top and closely trimmed at the sides. Looking at him, I see signs of my late grandfather…the same mannerisms and composure, same sense of calm.
I don’t have all the answers, and he knows it. He’s not upset, though, just perplexed. I can see his mind at work, his pronounced cheekbones rising and falling as he speaks. They fit in with his thin build. I can’t deny that he’s still growing. And I know deep inside that our young moth is on his way to being a man.
“That made no sense.” He sighs as he rattles off the facts that he’s learned and heard. This kid, this young-man-to-be, is already as tall as I am and looks more like a teenager each day. He’s tall for his age, one of the tallest in his class, and he’s been mistaken for a high schooler more than once. I warn him about it at times, teasingly explaining that others might think he’s older than he looks. But inside, it worries me a bit…no, a lot. He’s so young, yet so trusting. His favorite answer to me whenever I’m concerned about him is “I’m alright, Mom.” And I’m satisfied with his answer and his understanding of the situation, for now.
We move on.
We’re driving to his school next, running early due to the time gap between the twins’ high school’s start time and his middle school’s opening bell.
“Should we get some Dunkin’?” I ask, this time knowing the answer. It’s our little secret from his sibs, a way to kill time and to fill up before the school day begins.
“Yes,” he smiles, as his body language shifts and his shoulders relax.
It’s just another day in the life, but I think we’ll be okay.
What I can’t forget, though, is that so many aren’t okay and never will be again.
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