My Taste of the Auction Block

Powerless. Desperate.  Horrified.

These words described the horrific moments the Gloucester Township police officer was in my home threatening my family with the removal of my first grader.

The reason?  The boy took his fingernail clippers to school-and pretended to sword fight with the miniature fingernail file.  It was the second day of school.

And in that moment with a gruff, unsympathetic police officer telling us that he could remove my son from my home, I had my first glimpse of the wrenching gut pain felt by my foremothers who struggled to will their sons and daughters from the auction block.

Powerless.  Desperate.  Horrified.

What could I do to stop this officer?  What words could I use to infuse compassion in his heart instead of the terror he so triumphantly wielded over us?  And could I hide my sheer hatred of him in his disturbing moment of glory?

Why does this even make sense?  And why does this cop seem to be enjoying this?

My son was foolish, sure, but it was a juvenile thing to do.  What was all of this?

It is a moment neither he, my husband, his brother or I will ever forget.

I realized that my son was not really my own.  One has authority over what is his own.  This moment proved that he was mine only until the law justified this cop or any other authority to barge into our lives with his black boots and cold threats of removal.  Then there is nothing I could do to protect him and secure him.  There are no bargains, no words to soften the hearts of men authorized to divide families.

I could not protect him no matter how much I wanted to and needed to.

I wanted to protect him from this man’s threats and his own fear of the current circumstances.  But there is no consolation in this sort of crises.  I never wanted my children to know insecurity.  They had both mom and dad at home.  It was a safe and stable home before and after this childish error.

But where, where was the grace for the misdeeds of an immature child?  Where was the redirection, the correction necessary for the general impetuousness of youth?  And why is he being criminalized?

The principal told me that the zero tolerance policy applied in this case.  I did not tell her that I thought it was surely arbitrary since I’d known students fighting on buses, making threats, using racial slurs, throwing things at others and even saying, “I’m going to kill you” before chasing a classmate.  I just wanted an immediate resolution to this current situation.

What did I fear? I feared everything in that moment.

I feared for my son to experience the insecurity of being taken away from his place of safety to an unknown location.  I feared my son’s encounter with those who would treat him like something was wrong with him instead of his actions.  I feared for his proximity to abusers, molesters and all those who robbed children of their innocence and gaiety.

I feared the indelible stain the removal from our home would have on his confidence and self worth.  I feared the injury to his being of a carefree, fun loving child to one who is fearful and stressed by uncertainty.  I feared his placement in an environment wherein his father nor I had any governance. I feared what the experience would change him into and that the authority doing the removal was so cold, condemning and void of any compassion.   

I was at the mercy of strangers I did not know-the parents of his classmates who did not want to pursue charges of terroristic threats and unlawful possession of a weapon.  Instead, the case became a ‘station house adjustment.’  And this officer made it a point to emphasize that the least infraction moving forward could reopen this case…and these charges.  It was the second day of school for goodness sakes!

From there we had to have my son evaluated by a mental health professional.  I was so worried that the same mindset that designated my son a first grade criminal would be the same mindset performing this ‘assessment.’

In the waiting area, I kept smiling at my son and talking to him and his dad about other things.  His bright eyes, his big smile with the two missing teeth…I tried so hard to keep my anxiety to myself.  He was just a child.  I didn’t want him consumed by the awfulness of the moment or my own fear.

Allah answered my prayers when a black man approached us and introduced himself as the clinician.  A black man.  A black man who I already knew, knew.

My anxiety eased instantly.  There is a certain cultural competence for an accurate interpretation of behaviors and attitudes.  I didn’t need to worry about potential ‘leading’ questions to elicit incriminating responses.  Nor did I fear cynical disbelief of my son’s truthful statement that he did not want to hurt anyone at his school.  Or himself.

This. Black. Man. Knew.

He was everything the officer with his black boots and harsh tone was not.  He was kind.  And he was a friend.

My taste of the auction block.

This moment that I was confronted with the limitations with which I could protect my son was the most frightening I have ever experienced.  Since then I often think of my foremothers who experienced the inhumane follow through of such horror repeatedly for a lifetime.  I grieve for those women and their losses.  My taste of the auction block was their daily meal.

Bargaining, offering themselves to meet the lust of their masters, submitting to the skin peeling lashes of the razor sharp whips…I imagine they tried everything in their power to keep the children they’d borne-and many even borne to their masters-on the same slave plantations as they.

The cruelty of this vulnerability is visceral.  And it is an experience that I will never forget.

To listen to the Nurah Speaks Podcast episode wherein my son and I discuss this experience, click this link:
soundcloud.com/nurahspeaks/ep-71-mentorship-and-the-criminalization-of-childhood-with-qahhar-muhammad

Subscribe to Nurah Speaks on Spotify, ApplePodcasts, SoundCloud, Stitcher, CastBox, RadioPublic or wherever you stream great podcasts.

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