Sublime

In 1979, police officers chased thirty-three-year-old insurance salesman Arthur McDuffie on his motorcycle, claiming he’d made a vulgar gesture at them. When McDuffie toppled off the bike, police removed his helmet, beat him to death, and then replaced the helmet. My father used to have a copy of a poem about this event on his wall, titled “Who Kil

‘You think,’ he persisted, ‘that my life is shameful because my encounters are. And they are. But you should ask yourself why they are.’ ‘Why are they—shameful?’ I asked him. ‘Because there is no affection in them, and no joy. It’s like putting an electric plug in a dead socket. Touch, but no contact. All touch, but no contact and no light.’

He gave this some thought. He said he’d like me to walk up to the front of the wake or memorial or whatever, carrying a stick. What kind of stick? Whatever kind of stick, he said. You know, a branch, a stick. A big one. One you can hold and everyone can see. So you mean, like, a NATURAL stick. Not like…a martial arts stick. You mean like a… WHATEVE

By then anguish and fear had become the surface on which we slipped and slid, losing balance, dignity, and pride. Giovanni’s face, which I had memorized so many mornings, noons, and nights, hardened before my eyes, began to give in secret places, began to crack. The light in the eyes became a glitter, the wide and beautiful brow began to suggest th

through the yearbook carefully from cover to cover looking for him. He isn’t in any group picture or on any list of names.