Of Black, White, & Black and White Guns

So, I’m walking in the park, absolutely minding my own business – enjoying the sun, complementing myself for having made it outdoors while I could have spent many happy hours glued to the screen watching old episodes of “The West Wing.” Holmes Park Lake is a low-key recreational area where families hang out over the weekend. Quite a few folks had chosen to fish – an honorable hobby that requires much more patience than I often possess. Others were out on the lake paddling their stand-up boards. And as usual, multiple elderly couples were sitting on benches, some on motorized chairs enjoying the shade and reminiscing on bygone days.

I had left my apartment earlier that morning dressed in sneakers and with my camera fully loaded. The intention was to re-visit the Sunken Gardens I’d just discovered the day before, take photos, and then explore some of the many miles of trails that everyone in Lincoln, Nebraska keeps talking about.

I enjoy walking, immensely. I tend to power walk most times, even when there’s no seeming reason why I should be doing so. I love seeing how far I can go before I start running short of breath. Power walks have become a great substitute for my running. I’m using my knees very sparingly, especially because I often end up running on urban concrete, which wrecks havoc on the joints. Most of all, however, I love getting to my destination; often I have none in mind when I set out, but my body will figure out how tired I am before requesting that I sit on a bench and just enjoy the breeze.

Holmes Park was clearly going to be my destination. I’d already walked 3.5 miles, sweated a lot, and I was dying for some water. My plan was to grab a bottle of water from a vending machine I could see next to a baseball pitch, circle the lake, look for a spot underneath a tree, then sit and just breath for a while.

Walking towards the vending machine, I met two women. One was clearly older, and I immediately presumed that the five year old boy who was running several meters ahead of them was her son. The boy had a tree branch in his hands. The dry, hooked twig – brown and thin in his curled fingers – had been transformed into a weapon. Playfully, the kid turned his rifle towards me, and made shooting sounds. I almost missed the gesture, but his mother’s emphatic, “please put that stick away, ok?” brought me to the real significance of the situation. I’d just been shot at by a white kid.

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“Cops and Robbers,” that’s what we used to call the game back when I was in primary school. It was a heck of a lot more glamorous to be a robber. You could get away with a lot. Few of us wanted to be law abiding officers of the state, hunting down ruthless criminals. But without the boys in blue, the game wouldn’t have worked. So we often had to recruit a few less aggressive boys, or sometimes (heaven forbid) one or two girls.

It looks easy, this game, yet it’s anything but. There is a style, a panache to how you handle your weapon. How you wield it and how fast you can discharge it. The weapon – sometimes a Chinese-made plastic toy gun. Metal was ideal, but few parents could lavish such luxury onto our childhood dreams. More often, we made do with pistols carved from wood, or sometimes modeled in clay. If all else failed, one could always grab a twig and re-fashion it into a rifle. Or even simply point out the index and middle fingers, with the ring finger forming a trigger, while the thumb could be cocked before firing, a sure sign of those who truly understood the mysterious ways of such boyhood heroes as Chuck Norris, Rambo, Jean Claudde Van Damme, and Terminator.

You got shot and you were obligated to fall down and succumb to your injuries. Sometimes you could hobble away, nursing a bullet hole through your leg, but rules were rules. You couldn’t miraculously get better. Not if you wished to be invited for playtime next weekend.

None of the bullets flying towards you were covered in racial slurs. There was no N-word when you went down. It wasn’t even about ethnicity. Much, if not all, the dialogue during the game was run in Sheng: the nativist-denying tongue that binds kids in Kenya’s urban areas. It’s a language that borrows, shamelessly, from English, Spanish, and French, but also from Swahili, Kikuyu, Dholuo, Luhya, and a myriad other languages spoken in the country.

Perhaps there could have been traces of civil war. Remnants of the conflict that pitted Gikuyu loyalist – aka British collaborators – against their brethren who supported the Land & Freedom Army (Mau Mau). The latter ventured into the forest and waged a guerilla warfare that lasted from 1952 to 1957. But I think the intricacies of that civil war, and its implications on present-day Kenya were lost to us. We did not rehearse that particular series of battles. Just like the communities around us, no one invoked the spirit of dreadlocked forest fighters; no one proclaimed that they’d like to be Mau Mau, and sure as hell no one wished to impersonate the Lancaster Fusiliers, soldiers from the United Kingdom who were flown in at the height of Kenya’s Emergency period to flash out GEMA (Gikuyu, Embu, Meru) malcontents who were destabilizing what had been an otherwise “model” British colony.

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As we review the long history of U.S. grand juries repeatedly acquitting white officers who’ve murdered unarmed black men, getting shot at by a white kid matters. The action straddles the murky world of child’s play, while also reflecting contemporary debates about the worth of black lives and just how much do they matter. Was the boy’s gesture mere repetition of what’s happened before, or rehearsal for what’s to come after? How do we re-negotiate the rules of public space in ways that differentiate play from real actual danger? What’s society’s role in bringing up children who appreciate historical patterns of injustice and are awakened to the opportunities for activism and transcendence?

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