|Click here for full article on Guardian US.|
On the first day of winter’s thaw, I saw two teenage boys on the roof next door holding guns. I don’t know much about guns, except that they kill and that young black men holding them are likely to be killed. I called my husband, trying to keep panic out of my voice so as not alarm my own children. He looked out the window. “Jesus. Call the police.”
After Michael Brown, John Crawford, Eric Garner, Tamir Rice—especially after Tamir—calling the police didn’t seem like the solution here.
“Don’t you see who it is?” I told him. “Eddie and Aaron.”
The boys’ lower-income apartments squat dwarfed by the shadow of our larger middle-income building. An invisible red line and a bright blue spiked fence separate us. Any of our fourth floor neighbors could see them as well we could. I’ve known both since they were small children, but I could see them through the eyes of a stranger, or through my husband’s first glance: two young African American men, in hoodies, armed.