I did not understand the cliché "rest but don't quit" until this summer. Although I've had some remarkable experiences, I don't believe anything has ever stopped me in my tracks, like my brother’s death.
I write about violence and anti-social neighborhoods because I have experienced first-hand participating in those environments. I also found strategies to relieve myself from dealing with those environments. There are a lot of people just like me who have the capability or who otherwise would have the intellectual capacity if it weren't for the people around them suppressing their potential. So, I can speak from experience just like my brother could.
I consulted with my brother on my previous articles because I wanted a second opinion. My brother was an expert criminal but not an expert communicator. I'm an expert communicator, but not an expert criminal. Since, he was still submerged in the underworld, we were the perfect pairing in this dialogue. We had something that not many of these outspoken, online intellectuals have which is experience. Many of these intellectuals have never set foot in the hood, let alone have lived there, adopted the vernacular, nor understood the value system there. My brother and I were going to collaborate to dissect what was happening in the hood. We hoped that our friends, family, and others would question the "struggle" that we all had come to accept and, at times, glorify.
My brother's struggle started the moment that he was born. Herbert Demetris Wilson was born in 1980. We called him Metris and we lived in the projects. My mother was 19, and I was 4. We had different fathers who would show up from time to time to the dismay of some. Metris’s father moved to California and he dreamt of going someday. By the time Metris was 11, he had failed a grade, buried his father, lived in 7 different crime-ridden neighborhoods, and had lived with drug users, alcoholics, woman beaters, and the mentally ill. During his 7th grade year, when our youngest brother was born, Metris was 13. I was 17 being interrogated by the police weekly. We loved the new baby but Metris and I were a unit. There was team “Keit and Meat” and there was my mother, her boyfriend, and this baby we all shared. But I left that year, 1994, and Metris became team Metris. When he was 16, I came back and became his legal guardian. I was 20 years old, in the Air Force and college, when my grandmother helped me furnish our first apartment. But then I deployed for the Bosnian War shortly after my brother turned 18. He was enrolled in a community college. I sent him money that I had saved from his father’s death benefits. Despite having a plan and money, he and his friends, including the store clerk, conspired to rob a convenience store. During the robbery, a shootout ensued in which he shot a police officer five times, and they shot him nine times. After spending ten years in prison, he went from job to job and didn't have medical insurance, so he also had physical and mental health issues that went ignored. He also struggled with sleep deprivation and alcoholism.
My brother was completely and utterly frustrated with life but more specifically the consequences. He knew that he was smart and charismatic, but he felt blocked from success. He ruminated constantly and could not focus. He regretted participating in that robbery. He felt shame for being a felon and asking for help for things that a typical adult would know. He felt remorse for the people he hurt. He had no children but wanted to be a father figure. But more than anything, he longed for a connection with his own father, who was no longer here. His love for the San Francisco 49ers, his passion for Seventy-First High School, his smile, and his affinity for his father's family were his coping to connect to a father he felt was taken away from him twice. He felt abandonment, had learned helplessness, and was without meaning.
But one of the ways that he tried to find purpose was by loving people and being humorous. Our family is notoriously three things: violent, alcoholics, and comedians. My brother had chosen the moniker Nat Turner. He saw himself as an underdog but a fierce leader. He did not want to be controlled by anybody or feel powerless. He would choose death over prison. He would choose homelessness over being controlled. He loved all people regardless of race but especially the underdogs. He could lead a rebellion of underdogs fearlessly and would sacrifice himself for his people. He was an upbeat person and not outwardly insecure. His signature, big personality, and smile were so remarkable that it was a major topic during his eulogy. It was no surprise that people found it unbelievable that my brother was (in his own words) "tired."
We were alone at my mother's home a few months before he died. I sat at the kitchen table, fiddling with my phone as my brother sat on the living room floor just a few feet away. He stretched and crossed his legs on the floor and tied his dreadlocks on his head. He asked me, "Keit, what I'm sufferin' from?" I glared at him above my glasses. "A lot!" I quipped, and we laughed. He said, "For real, what's your professional opinion?" I tilted my head while losing my smile and gently said, "Aimlessness." He turned his head for a second, looked back at me with serious intent, and asked, "You don't think I got ADHD or something?" I shook my head a bit and replied, "That's possible, but that's not why you're suffering." He leaned back and stared out of the window. He let out a big "ugh" that dissipated any hint of emotion. In the coming weeks, we discussed making peace and aspirations. We discussed becoming more responsible, having self-control, and sobriety. We discussed my articles and starting his podcast that he wanted to title "Let’s Talk About It.” He wanted to talk about serious things and not just be a statistic or joke.
I am going to talk about it, and I hope that others who grew up similar to us talk about it too.
We like to talk about being hard and how hard it is in the hood but not who’s making it hard. We want to talk about the good times and make jokes, but we don’t like to talk about what keeps us up at night. The media, the intellects, and the commentators talk about “black people” and “murder rates” without discussing everything else in high crime areas, like the daily assaults. Conscious activists like to talk about white supremacy, black girl magic, and all types of racecraft but not about child abuse and oversexualization. There are multiple reasons why violence is prevalent in some neighborhoods. And there are a lot of reasons why crime is so persistent. And lastly, there are so many reasons why young people use their identity as a counterfeit of genuine fulfillment and effort. Let’s talk about how humans experience environments that lead to drug use, mental illness, and poor mental hygiene regardless of continental ancestry. We need someone talking about the adversity in children’s lives that throws them off their journey to reaching their potential. Adverse childhood experiences significantly contribute to many social, physical, and mental health issues. Adversity creates unforgettable memories that take up finite cognitive processing, making it difficult to focus on complicated things like math and life. Let’s talk about agency, self-efficacy, and the self-discipline it takes to do challenging tasks that will grow your abilities. In my dissertation last year regarding ACEs and employment, I wrote in the acknowledgements:
“I am grateful to my brother Herbert Wilson whose youthful spirit and resilience took the brunt of unbearable times and who is the catalyst for all my efforts.”
Children are resilient but not without consequences. Let’s talk about it.
In Loving Memory of Metris
Us 3/The Motley Crew. (Mani, Me, and Meat)
Our brother Mani is an Army Special Forces veteran and works in IT. He’s 29, single and has no children. Mani would always lovingly tell us that we “blazed the trails”, so since Metris didn’t like the phrase r.i.p., it’s only fitting….
Blaze the Trails Nat Turner!