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When I was younger, I remember being in a department store with my brother and mother. We were running around playing with toys, trying to beg her to buy one for us.
Being rambunctious and loud, my brother and I thought we could wear her down. Seeing a little white boy doing the same, my brother and I ran over and started playing with him. Frustrated, my mom grabbed us both and left the store.
In the car, she took a long breath and said: "You cannot act like that. You have to act like you've got some sense, okay?"
Confused, I said: "We were just playing."
My mother immediately said: "You cannot play like that, in there, like he can." She then put the car in drive and left the store.
That moment was important because it was one of the first lessons of being a Black boy in Kansas City, Missouri.
When I learned of the shooting of Ralph Yarl, the 16-year-old Black boy shot by a white man after he went to the wrong house to pick up his siblings on April 13, 2023, I shook my head and let out a large sigh.
Not out of shock, but exhaustion. Being a Black boy or a Black man is an act of defiance against a city, a state, and a county that hates what you are.
Reading stories and headlines about unarmed African-American boys and men being shot and killed by the police, unfortunately, does not make me pause anymore.
From Tamir Rice to Alton Sterling, and George Floyd to Jayland Brown, it is commonplace for our deaths to be front-page news. However, the assault on Yarl felt different. A fear went through my body that I hadn't felt in a while.
It hit home because I am from Kansas City. That may have been me growing up, and I have three nephews.
In Kansas City, race is a very "in-your-face" concept. Racial lines are drawn very deeply. There has never been a day that I lived in Kansas City or visited that I forgot I was Black.
From the anti-Black comments on talk radios to the constant micro-aggressions I experience being in all-white spaces, to the repudiation of any racial protest and the constant policing in my community, being Black is very visceral in Kansas City.
In Kansas City, the street that divides white and Black folks is Troost Avenue. The demarcation that separates the haves and have-nots, which often says "Black folks are over here, and white folks go over there."
Every city has that street, highway, or railroad track that divides the good part from the "other side of town." I am from southeast Kansas City, or what many people dub "Southside" or more affectionately, "The Hood."
Driving east of Troost, the houses are more dilapidated, the number of liquor stores increase the deeper you go, and there is a sense of being forgotten as if city development skipped over this part of town.
When you travel west of Troost, the houses gradually become nicer, more coffee shops appear, the number of white women walking tiny teacup dogs increases. The streets are cleaner, and there is a sense that something exciting is coming here. There is always something being built to serve the community, while mine gets nothing.
Growing up, we were taught "be careful of going over there" which meant "white neighborhoods." There was always a story of a family member or friend being harassed by residents of a neighborhood, not receiving proper and timely service at a restaurant, being followed up and down the aisle in certain stores, and of course, police stopping and pulling them over because they "look suspicious."
When I turned 16 and got my driver's license, my mother sat me down and gave me "The Talk", a conversation many Black parents have with their Black children about race in America.
While the bulk of the talk centered around what to do when, not if, I am pulled over by the police, my mother also said: "There are going to be things you cannot do that white boys your age can do. The world is going to look at you differently because of the color of your skin. You don't have the same freedoms and liberties they have. The margin of error for Black folks is razor thin."
I remember that conversation because it colored the way I lived my life since. Gone were the days of everyone being treated the same and judged by the content of their character, and not their race. That has and never was a reality for me.
Years later, I had a conversation with a reverend about "The Talk." She felt that it stole Black children's youth. I responded: "We have to prepare them for what kind of world they are in."
In my mind, at the heart of the Ralph Yarl shooting is the belief that Black boys always pose a threat. No matter the age, height, or skin tone, African-American boys and men are seen as dangerous.
From D.W. Griffith's The Birth of a Nation portraying us as uncontrollable savages, to stereotypes of Black men being criminals, there has always been a belief that we are a danger to society, and society has responded as such.
Black men make up a disproportionate percentage of arrests and fill the prisons more than any group. This sends a message that Black boys and men have to be controlled and told their place, and if they step out of it, then they can and will be killed.
When I think of Ralph Yarl being a victim of this assault, my mind goes to growing up as a young Black boy in Kansas City, experiencing racism by either overt actions or exclusion.
I then think of my three nephews; tall inquisitive Black boys that will be a threat just because of the color of their skin.
I always worry about their safety and how the world will treat them as grow. They will experience the same racist acts that I faced when I was their age, and that is what gets me down.
Black boys never truly get a chance to be "young" because of who they are. When we reach a certain height, we are "men" and will be treated as such. With this shooting, my concerns are increased.
Being Black is a perilous siege, partly because of white America's view of us. There is a saying: "The most dangerous place for Black folks is a white person's imagination."
And that is what I believe got Yarl shot.
LeRon L. Barton is a writer, author, and speaker.
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