Here’s an example of what I mean. When I was eating with friends not too long ago, one friend got a phone call from his mother. When he rejoined the conversation, I asked if everything was all right. He replied, “Yeah,” in a tone like “my mom’s being a bit much” manner.
ME: Oh, trouble with your very-much-alive mom, hmmm? You know how hard it is to hug a field on Mother’s Day?
HIM: Well, she just made a suicide threat again, so…
The table got quiet and the “oh shit” look instantly appeared on the faces of our friends sitting across from us. I stared at him for a moment before saying my initial thought aloud, which was…
ME: DAMMIT!
HIM: *nodding and smiling* Yeah! Yeeeeeeeeah!
ME: Arghhhhhhh, dead mom doesn’t beat that, does it?!
HIM: Nope! Dead mom doesn’t trump suicidal mom, Omar. What now?!
We were laughing about this while our friends were looking at us like, “The fuck is wrong with y’all?” He then talked about this issue with his mom (which none of us had previously been aware of). In turn, I told him about the mental illness my mother dealt with (which none of them knew about either) and how it was growing up around that. We weren’t playing pain Olympics but instead showing that, although we weren’t able to fully relate to each other’s experiences, we had a parallel of understanding. That understanding comes from a bond through our black humor. Not everyone can have or hold the conversation in that way because not everyone has gone through or dealt with what we were talking about. Casually talking about that while making jokes looks wild from the outside in, I know, but my friend and I both have that same shift with how we engage, so this was a comforting conversation. However, Go On literally talked about this, with the grief counselor Lauren telling the group and Ryan specifically that you shouldn’t rely on that newfound defense or personality shift to navigate through life at all times, because it can hurt or make others uncomfortable unintentionally. I knew she was right ’cause a friend told me that they hated crying in front of me ’cause I would just look at them like a science experiment. Sooooo, that’s something I continuously work on.
Go On thought of everything, dammit. I loved the show so much, and the fact that it was canceled after only a season wasn’t fair but was fitting, as that’s just how life is, isn’t it? You take the great things for granted and get so hurt when they’re taken away. My mom used to tell me constantly, “I’m not always going to be around to do this for you,” to which I’d reply, “But you’re too stubborn to die,” every single time. The day she was on her deathbed she told me, “When I go, don’t bring me back.” In that moment the only thing I could say was “Given the weight of the current situation, that’s the most gangsta shit you ever said to me.” The thing is, no parent should ever have to bury their own child, so a child burying their parent becomes this privilege, a privilege none want but still have to acknowledge.
I’m still workin’ on it, but this show helped me realize that it’s all right if it’s September 9, 2011, today or even tomorrow as well, but when it stops being that day, I don’t have to feel guilty about it because moving on doesn’t mean forgetting. It just means you remember in your own way, even if it happens to be recalling all the funny moments. How we choose to go on isn’t important, just that when the time comes, we do.
The Sobering Reality of Actual Black Nerd Problems
WILLIAM EVANS, aka The Reluctant Sword
OCTOBER 31 WAS a Friday, and despite the fact there was already plenty of reason to celebrate because it was Halloween and the end of my workweek, it was also the opening day of Ohio’s comic con as a part of the Wizard World circuit. I clocked out of work, threw on some jeans and my Attack on Titan Survey Corps shirt, and headed straight for the convention, since there were precious hours left in the day. Once I made it down there, grabbed my press pass (we outchea), and made it to the floor, it was as I expected: steeped in glorious geekery. As Leslie Light, a Black Nerd Problems editor and writer, had written about so eloquently before, not everyone can make it to New York or San Diego for the mother and father of all cons in North America, and the smaller ones definitely have value.
As this was my first year attending, I was just trying to make the rounds and soak in as much as I could without committing to anything or really planning on writing about it (you’ll see how that worked out). At some point, between my buying an original sketch of Master Chief and taking a picture of a homie in an awesome Deathstroke cosplay (Arkham Origins edition), a guy came up to me pointing emphatically: “Awesome shirt, man!” I thanked him. It is in fact an awesome shirt, so I get that a lot.
“Check this out.” He put a long box on the table in front of us and pulled out a replica Survey Corps blade. While not sharpened steel, it was solid metal and polished, a nice collectible whether you intended to hang it on the wall or wander into the woods beyond Columbus and hunt Titans. I nerded out with my newfound friend and enthusiast for a moment before making my way to the very display he had made the purchase from.
The display was glorious: just about every bladed weapon from nerd lore was on the tables, all handled with care, all available for a price. There was Jon Snow’s Longclaw, Cloud Strife’s Buster sword, Nariko’s Heavenly Sword, and many, many more. I picked up Buster and marveled at its weight. This thing was awesome. I had no idea where I would put it, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t contemplate dropping some credits on it. I mean, come on: FINAL FANTASY VII MEMORABILIA!
And then I got really, really sober and put it down. I smiled at the vendor, told him how great all the stuff looked, then walked away. Maybe it was because the autopsy of twenty-two-year-old Darrien Hunt, the cosplayer in Utah, was just released and confirmed that he was shot at least six times by police, at least four of them in his back. Darrien was killed in September 2014 for carrying a plastic sword as part of his Samurai Champloo Mugen cosplay, about a month before I stood in front of a vendor and walked away from his awesome collection of replicas. Darrien never drew the fake sword, but when the guns were pointed at him, he ran. Away from them. And they shot him to death anyway. Suddenly, the idea of carrying around a giant sword wasn’t as appealing.
I want to be clear and realistic about something: I am aware of two things simultaneously. I am über-aware of the violence against Black men and boys based solely upon the fact that someone was scared of them by default. I talk about that a lot, constantly really, because Trayvon Martin and Jordan Davis and Michael Brown and Darrien and… and… and… happen a lot. Constantly really. But I am also aware of my personal disposition. When the debates raged on after Michael Brown’s death at the hands of Darren Wilson in Ferguson, Missouri, one of the people arguing in favor of the killing was Ben Stein. He answered the pleas of people stating that Michael was unarmed by saying, “He was armed with his incredibly strong, scary self.” From a physical stature, I would be counted among the strong, scary men Stein refers to. But I’m also older than most of those men I named. Maybe my life has been saved multiple times without my knowing because some cop or Second Amendment lifer thought that older translated to “not as much of a threat.” Who knows what magical combination of Black and wide shoulders and graying beard unlocks the secret of being Black and safe to exist. But Walter Scott was fifty when he was shot in the back. Philando Castile was thirty-two. Maybe the lesson is that nothing truly saves you.
I don’t know the answer, but my age has brought me at least one thing: recognizing what I hold precious. When I was younger, I was much more reckless. My interactions with police officers were seldom cordial, but I had been conditioned to think, “This is a thing that happens.” One friend got pulled over and got a ticket. One friend got pulled over three months later and never made it home. As a teenager, I thought the outcomes of interacting with the police were random. “Nothing to be done.” And because of that, I took less care. I wasn’t antagonistic with cops, but I seldom entered a situation thinking, “I must do whatever it takes to get home aliv
e.” Because I didn’t think it was up to me. And maybe even scarier to think about in retrospect, I’m not sure I even thought it was up to them.
But you get older and you accumulate things. Like a sense of purpose, a direction. For me, mostly it’s been a family. I don’t think I have a particularly healthy approach to my own mortality, but I am very concerned about the effect my premature death would have on my wife and daughter. Now, I’m at least aware of unnecessary risks. No matter how mind-boggling fucked that is. And that’s the point really. How the fuck is it that my Friday-night comic con experience was hijacked by me doing the math on if I could get to my car safely with a giant, cartoonish sword strapped across my back? Why was this something that concerned me at all? It sure as hell didn’t concern the cool white dude who had shown me his Levi blade earlier. If I’d run into him again and if he’d asked me if I picked one up myself, I wouldn’t know how to tell him about my reluctance to open myself up to possible harm. I wouldn’t know how to engage him on a level that says, “I’m glad we met and share an affinity for this same piece of art, but because I’m Black and aware of the world around me, I don’t feel comfortable indulging myself at the same level you do.” It’s a tough conversation to have. It’s a tougher situation to articulate. It’s toughest though just trying to live with that doubt in your head.
We were probably naive for a while. Even people such as myself that talk about the violence toward Black bodies in all manners of aggression thought that nerd shit was off-limits or at least not viewed as a threat. “It’s a costume!” we would all yell in our glass cases, now fogged and yet unbroken with our exasperation. Darrien Hunt changed that.
And we didn’t need him to be shot in the back while running for his life AWAY FROM COPS that had their guns drawn on him, but it’s a lesson we learned nonetheless. The name Black Nerd Problems originated from funny vignettes that Omar and I used to trade back and forth that really had to do with relating our nerddom to other people. Like, “If she legit thinks Gotham is the new The Wire… #BlackNerdProblems” (from Omar). It was fun and comical and facetious. But a real Black Nerd Problem is not knowing if your cosplay will get you killed. Or if phaser = wallet = forty-one empty shell casings later. Or feeling compelled to write this chapter in the first place.
Bury the Stringer Bell but Let Idris Live
WILLIAM EVANS, aka The Dude That Knows Where the Fuck Wallace Is
ALL PRAISE DUE to Idris, fine as he wanna be, every man—and I do mean every gotdamn man—cursing his own genetic makeup cuz of Idris. Got more jobs than that Black woman you still ain’t paid for the emotional labor. Got more talent than a bored-ass Jamie Foxx after his show got canceled. Dude canceled the apocalypse in Pacific Rim, then got COVID-19 and canceled that shit for himself too. Idris, never change, never stop having your Madonna moment, your marrying beauties half your age even though you look three-fifths of your age your damn self.
But it’s time to admit that Stringer Bell—yes, that String; yes, that Bell—might have been the most beloved punk ass in TV history. String the Destroyer. String the original Roc Nation brunch president. String the Sunday Truce–Breaker. Was a terrible fucking person. And no, not the “well, he was a drug dealer, of course he was terrible” moral high ground terrible. I mean even on The Wire, where there were no angels, he was still a lower demon terrible.
String studied the game, watched the film, knew all his history, and still blew a 3–1 lead. String came up in the drug murder game and only bodied his own people. Sexy-ass Judas. Chicken hawk Black sheep in wolf clothing. Tropic Chocolate Thunder. He’s the dude pretending to be the dude pretending to be another dude. He never won shit. Stringer Bell ain’t won shit except a Drug GQ magazine cover and summa cum laude of a Baltimore community college. Show me a Stringer Bell accomplishment and I’ll show you a nigga doing half a life sentence for his decisions. String’s face too pretty for tatted tears.
String will date your partner though. Let you take that bid and pipe your beloved. There’s some hoes in this house and String is Home Alone with no intruders. Stringer Bell is Mr. Steal Your Girl. Or correction, Stringer Bell is Mr. “Let You Rot in a Jail Cell, Kill Your Underlings, and Then Pay Someone to Murder You in the Prison Library” Steal Your Girl. You ain’t feedin’ D’Angelo’s kid, String. You ain’t taking that little nigga to the Druid Hill Park. At least take him in as a ward, String. You ain’t got no Ned Stark in you, bruh. West Baltimore lookin’ like Iron Islands under your watch, String.
How you gonna set up two of the most dangerous men in the game against each other? How you gonna work Robert’s Rules into the drug game? Does the chair know we gonna look like some punk-ass bitches, String? How you gonna kill a kid cuz he no longer likes killin’ other kids, String? How you obsessed with no paper trails but you run a copy machine business? How you let a downtown dude steal your money like that? How you gonna try and send your lead enforcer on a suicide mission cuz your feelings hurt? How you ain’t hard enough for this game, String? How you not smart enough for this game, String?
You know why we loved Avon, String? Cuz that man stood for something. Like, the entirely wrong shit, but he stood for something. Avon didn’t want nothin’ from nobody except his corners and maybe to drop some bodies on the block here and there. But the bodies were to remind people that those were his corners. What you ever stand for, String? Besides to take an oath in court. Besides to leave a prison visit when D’Angelo punked you about Wallace.
You know why we loved Omar, String? Cuz that man had a code. Don’t never put your gun on nobody who wasn’t in the game. What code did you have, String? Besides speaking in codes to make sure you weren’t caught on tape talkin’ that drug talk? Besides giving customers the code to use the copy machines in your store?
I’m sorry if Stringer Bell was your favorite. I’m sorry you find Baltimore Benedict Arnold sexy. I wish he had a floating eye. I wish he had a hook for a hand. Like a Captain Hook–type metal appendage covered in smallpox. We didn’t ask for a perfect presentation of a man just to get an articulate Demogorgon. I’m just glad we didn’t get a Stringer prequel story with Idris. I would’ve watched every second of it.
An Open Letter to the Starks: Y’all Should’ve Taken Better Care of Your Direwolves
OMAR HOLMON, aka Middle Earth’s Direwolf Dog Walker
HEY, STARK CHILDRENS,
Gather round and lemme holler at y’all with a story for a minute ’bout some loyalty shit. I like dogs, but I’m not a die-hard dog person. I’m not the “you can lick me on the mouth” type, know what I mean? Now, my brother, Travis, loves dogs though. In 2003, he brought this little black pit bull puppy with a white arrow on his nose over to Mom’s house. Travis named him Exodus. I was playing with the puppy then watched as he wandered by the kitchen table. Mom, knowing what was coming, shouted, “OhoOo—OoOoO—OooO—TRAVIS! He ’bout to pee!” I took my sock off and tossed it at the puppy, he understood the gesture and peed on it. He even looked back at me midstream as if to say, “Aye, man, thank you. You’re all right.” I lost a sock that day but gained a friend in Exodus. Whenever we met, he always remembered me for the assist.
It needs to be said that Exodus was the coolest dog I’ve ever met in my life. When he walked into a room everyone would go “Ayyyyyyye! Exodus!” like he was Norm from Cheers. Exodus never barked and felt more like the chillest person than just a dog. When not engaging with anyone he’d just stare out the window picking out which squirrel he was gon’ to fade once he made it outside. One time when visiting him at Travis’s place, Exodus was on top of the balcony while I was in the driveway, a good forty feet away. I saw a huge snake Harlem-shaking his way toward me. Before I even reached the “shit” portion in my “Ohhhhh shit” yell, this dude Exodus was already by my side, muscled up like, “What’s the problem? Who got a fucking problem?” For years we’d run through the woods together, and even in his old age he’d be limping but still goin’, which just reminded me that the homie was getting on in
his years. Exodus was getting worse as he got older. One day he sneezed so hard that it shook his head violently and left him bleeding from the nose profusely. My brother had to make a hard call on letting Ex live after that, as he could literally die from blood loss should it happen again (which it easily could), or putting him down. The doctors weren’t telling Travis which way to go with his decision, so Travis did what he thought was best not for himself or the family, but for Exodus. In September 2015, Exodus, the most chill dog I ever came to know and love, his watch ended.
Now I said all that to say this: if I was living in y’all’s world as a Stark and Exodus was my pit bull–breed direwolf, on my fucking life if shit went down and he dies fighting beside or for me and mine, I’m not coming back alive either. I’m going Fall Out Boy (goin’ down swinging) back-to-back with Ex like the cover of Lethal Weapon on some “I’m not gon’ bury my direwolf! My direwolf gon’ bury me!” But you fucking Stark kids, man. You fucking Stark kids out here losing y’all’s partnas? I said partnas! Not pets. Not companions. Muhfuckin’ partnas, ride or dies, your fucking sigil bannermen out to the wild, man. Couldn’t be me. Y’all got the game all the way fucked up. Fuck the North remembering right now, the hood still remembers how Sansa’s wolf, Lady, went out. Lady was the first Stark direwolf to take the fucking L, an L that wasn’t even hers to take too. Ned had to fuckin’ ice Lady because Cersei was pettier than all fuck, man. Shit, you mean to tell me the glass ceiling comes for your gender no matter the species too, doe? For really real? Ned walked over to her somber as hell and Lady was like, “Oh hey, man… you gon’ take this collar off? Kinda tight around the neck, nah mean? Oh, you’re petting me? Never spent much time doing that before but okay… ummm, what’s with the knife? Whoa! WHOA! AYE, I AIN’T E’UN DO NUTTIN’!” and she really didn’t, remember? Lady got Gone Girl’d because earlier, Joffrey was being a fuckboy then turned that fuckboyedness toward Arya, holding her at sword point. Arya’s dog, Nymeria, saw that shit and kept it a fucking buck running up on Joffrey with the chompers to his hand. Arya tossed Joffrey’s piece into the river and they bounced from the scene of the crime. Arya had Nymeria dip ’cause she knew they’d try to earth her for what she did. What they didn’t know was that Cersei would take the punishment out on Lady. Fucking foul, man. Lady, you deserved better, you pretty thing!
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