The Black Friend

by Frederick Joseph

  But there was a silver lining, as in my first week of school, I finally made two friends: Ryan and Marcus.

  Ryan was a young white kid who had just moved to Yonkers from New Jersey after his father had passed away. His mom was now raising him and his siblings as a single parent, and she didn’t have much money. They lived in one of Yonkers’s low-income areas, which I had never seen a white person do.

  Marcus was pretty similar to me: a Black kid who didn’t have much, stayed out of people’s way, loved being a nerd, and someone who girls didn’t think was cute.

  The three of us met in the cafeteria. Ryan and I didn’t know each other, but we each saw the other nervously looking for a place to sit. Ryan decided to come over to me and ask whether I had a suggestion. Marcus saw us searching aimlessly and invited us to the “safe zone” table. (Yes, the same one mentioned earlier.)

  After that day, we became great friends. But having one another didn’t change the fact that we were all bullied constantly, which is why a lot of our time was spent figuring out how to be bullied less.

  It seemed like an impossible task, until one day after school when Marcus’s older sister took us to a local sneaker store with her to look at things we couldn’t afford.

  Marcus’s sister, Vanessa, went to a high school that was about five minutes away from our school. So she’d pick us up sometimes and let us hang out with her. Marcus had told us that she wasn’t very popular in her school, which is probably why she was nice to us; she felt our pain.

  While we were in the store, a group of older popular girls from our school walked in. The store was small, so the girls saw us, but they didn’t acknowledge our presence. Which was a lot better than how they treated us in school. The girls seemed to know exactly what they wanted, because they came in and were quickly at the register and on their way out.

  As they were leaving, we overhead one of the girls say that she wanted a shirt that she saw, but her mother hadn’t given her enough money for it. After they left, Ryan told us he was going to steal the shirt and give it to the girl at school the next day. He figured it would be a way to get on their good side.

  Ryan waited until all of the staff at the store were preoccupied, looked for a blind spot on the cameras, and stuffed the shirt in his coat.

  Not only was I in shock; I was nervous beyond description. I had always been taught that stealing was one of the worst things I could ever do. Which is why Ryan and Marcus had to basically drag me out of the store, because I was afraid to leave with them and the shirt.

  The next day at school, we went up to the girls in the cafeteria and Ryan gave them the shirt. They were stunned.

  While we were standing there, one of the older guys who had also been bullying us saw us talking to the girls and said, “Y’all are too ugly to be talking to them. How about you—”

  Before he could continue, the girl who the shirt was for said, “Shut up and stop bothering us.”

  I’m not sure what we expected to happen, but it couldn’t have been as good as what actually happened. An older popular girl protected us, which was about as good as having a parade held for us.

  After the guy walked away, the girls asked us if we could get them some more clothes, so we did. Over the next few weeks, we stole clothes, lip gloss, makeup, and anything else they wanted.

  We would go to the mall and wait until security and store staff were distracted and steal items in our coats and book bags where cameras couldn’t see us.

  But we never stole anything for ourselves. We were just trying to keep the girls happy, since they were defending us from bullies and making other kids start to treat us differently because they saw the girls speaking to us.

  I’m not sure how long we thought we could keep it all going. But I guess we were prepared to do it for the foreseeable future if it meant surviving at school.

  I stayed home from school one day because I wasn’t feeling well. My mother had to go to work, so my grandmother came over to take care of me.

  While at my house, my grandmother decided to clean up my room a bit. As she was cleaning, my book bag fell on the floor. All of the things I had recently stolen and had planned on taking to school that day came tumbling out.

  There were hair supplies, makeup, and costume jewelry all over the floor.

  My grandmother looked at me in shock and asked, “How did you get these? Where did you get these from?” I didn’t respond; I knew this was going to be bad.

  She followed up with the same questions again, this time yelling. She must have seen my face turn pale and knew. A few seconds later, she grabbed my shirt and looked me in my eyes and asked slowly, “Did you steal these?”

  I remained silent, because I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to lie to my grandmother, but I also knew telling her the truth was going to break her heart and get me in trouble. She then pulled me closer and yelled, “Frederick, did you steal these?”

  In a soft voice I quickly responded, “Yes.”

  As soon as the word left my mouth, my grandmother slapped me and went to sit at the edge of my bed and started crying.

  This is the only time I can remember my grandmother hitting me, other than lightly slapping my hand when I was disobedient as a child.

  She began speaking to herself and praying, “Lord, please, not my grandson. Let us figure this out. Let us find a way.” It was in that moment that I realized she wasn’t angry; she was afraid.

  I apologized to her and then told her all about the kids at school and explained why I had been stealing with my friends.

  “You and Marcus are going to get yourselves in trouble. None of you should be stealing, but if you get caught, Ryan won’t be dealing with the same things,” she responded.

  I asked her whether she was going to tell my mother, and she agreed not to as long as I promised never to do it again. I looked her in her eyes and I promised.

  That was the first and last time I ever lied to my grandmother.

  My grandmother thought about having me return the stolen items but figured that the store owners might not be understanding and might call the police. Instead, she decided to place the items in a trash bag and take it with her to throw away later.

  I actually learned recently that many white people that I know stole from stores as children, but they never had to worry about the same consequences as children of color do. For many white people, it’s a normal childhood mistake, not potentially life altering.

  The next day at school when we went to give the girls their latest items, I was the only one who didn’t have anything to give them. One of the girls said, “Well, then, there’s no reason to know you, ugly.” Then they quickly began making fun of me.

  Just like that, weeks of peace gone in a moment. I was frantic and refused to go back to being treated like garbage.

  “I’ll have more later this week!” I said.

  The girls stopped, and Ryan and Marcus stared at me, looking both confused and nervous. I had told them what happened with my grandmother, and they both said I should stop.

  The girl who had called me ugly said, “Well, if that’s the case, maybe you aren’t that ugly. See you Wednesday!” Then they walked away.

  Ryan and Marcus told me I was making a mistake and shouldn’t do it, but I refused to go back to being bullied. I couldn’t take it.

  The following day after school, we asked Vanessa whether Ryan and I could go to the mall with her. (Marcus couldn’t come because he had a dentist appointment.)

  She told us she wasn’t going to the mall we typically went to near school, that she had decided to go to the Westchester mall with some of her friends.

  The Westchester mall was in upper Westchester and, as opposed to those in the mall we normally went to, most of the stores were luxury. Most of the people who went there were wealthy and white, as upper Westchester was generally. I often heard people say they didn’t like going there because they felt the staff at stores and security were racist.

  As
always, she told us to be careful and to meet her at the food court in an hour. We agreed and looked for stores that we thought would have the best items for the girls and little security.

  We found a store with a young staff, various things that we would typically steal, and, most important, no security.

  As soon as we went into the store, we waited for the staff to be busy and got started. We stuffed our coats with earrings, bracelets, scrunchies, anything we could find that wouldn’t be easily seen.

  When we were done, we checked to make sure that no one was looking and headed toward the door. First went Ryan, and I was next. He watched from outside the store as I slowly made my way toward the door so as not to draw attention to myself.

  As I turned the handle on the door and began to open it, the door was pushed shut. “Oh, no, you don’t.”

  I turned around to see a tall white man in a hoodie, jeans, and a baseball cap. He yanked my arm and began pulling me along with him.

  “Get off of me!” I yelled. At which point another man came over. He was also white and wearing a baseball cap, and he had on a tracksuit.

  “Another one of those little punks stealing stuff,” the man holding me said to him.

  I yelled again, “Stop grabbing me! Get off of me!”

  The man in the tracksuit ignored me. “Where’d this one put the stuff?”

  The man holding me responded, “In his coat.”

  The man in the tracksuit then grabbed me, unzipped my coat, and forcefully pulled it off me, hurting my arm in the process. He then started pulling out all the items I’d stolen.

  I realized that they were undercover security guards, and I felt my stomach drop. I stared at the door, looking to see if Ryan was going to help me.

  The man in the hoodie saw me looking at Ryan, so he opened the door and asked, “Do you know this kid?”

  Ryan looked at me for a second, then said no. He then walked away slowly and didn’t turn back. The security guard closed the door and walked back over to me.

  As soon as I saw Ryan leave, my heart began racing. I started shaking and then crying.

  The two men pulled me toward the side of the register in the store and placed the items I’d stolen on the counter.

  The man in the tracksuit laughed and said, “Oh, now you want to cry?”

  I just stared at him and continued crying louder. Customers began to watch the scene.

  The man in the hoodie asked how old I was. Through my crying, I told him I was eleven years old. He got frustrated and said, “So you want to steal stuff and then lie? This is the problem with you people.”

  “I’m eleven, I swear,” I responded. I was small for my age and was used to people thinking I was younger than I was.

  But what he said next was “You’re obviously older than that!”

  I didn’t know it at the time, but there’s a long history in this country of white people assuming Black children are older than they are—sometimes with deadly consequences for those same children.

  I kept crying and said, “I swear I’m eleven.”

  “You have the nerve to lie to my face? You can lie to the police, then!” He grabbed my arm again and pulled me with so much force that I hit one of the clothing racks and fell with it.

  While I was on the floor, I heard someone say, “He’s just a kid! Relax!” and another say, “Don’t do that to him!”

  But no one stepped in.

  While I was on the floor, I wasn’t able to catch my breath, and I could feel my heart pounding throughout my body. I couldn’t move at all. I didn’t know what was happening to me, but I was terrified.

  The two security guards kept yelling for me to get up, but I couldn’t.

  “Stop trying to make a scene, you a**hole!” one of them yelled. A moment later, the man in the hoodie snatched me and pulled me to my feet, but I couldn’t stand and immediately fell back down.

  I was breathing so heavily that people started walking over to see what was happening.

  “Is he okay?” I heard a man say.

  “He’s fine. He’s trying to make a scene because he got caught stealing!” one of the security guards responded.

  The man who asked whether I was okay then said, “I’m a doctor and he doesn’t look okay. I think he’s having a panic attack. Get him some water.”

  One of the security guards responded, “He doesn’t need—”

  The man cut him off: “Get this kid some damn water!”

  The man then helped me to sit up and told me to breathe slowly.

  He was a well-dressed young white man wearing slacks, a sweater, and a tan trench coat.

  “Breathe slowly,” he said again. Moments later, the security guard in the tracksuit handed the man water, and he gave it to me and told me to drink it and continue to breathe. I began to calm down.

  “What’s your name?” the man asked.

  “Frederick,” I responded.

  “That’s a good name. I’m Brian,” he said.

  I asked him what his last name was. “It’s Owens, but you can just call me Brian.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Owens. My mother said I can’t call adults by their first name,” I replied. I finished the cup of water and looked around and saw customers and the security guards staring.

  Brian smiled and said, “You seem like a respectful kid. Did your mother also tell you not to steal, Frederick?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “So, why are you stealing?” Brian asked.

  “It was for the girls in school who bully me,” I confessed.

  “I remember those days. How old are you?” Brian asked.

  “I swear I’m eleven,” I responded.

  A second later, the man in the hoodie looked at the door and said, “Perfect—the cops are here. Let’s get him out of here.” At that point I began crying again.

  Two older white police officers came in and asked what was going on. The security guards told them they had caught me stealing and showed them all the items that they had found in my coat.

  “They always come here to steal. Wish they’d stay in their own mall,” one of the officers said, and then he looked at me and told me to get up.

  Brian helped me to my feet while I continued crying.

  The officer then put his hand on my shoulder and said, “All right, come on, let’s go.”

  Before I could move, Brian held me back and asked the police officers where they were taking me. They told him I was going to go down to the security office while they filed paperwork and then would be taken to the precinct.

  “He’s just a kid—is all of that necessary? He’s obviously shaken up, I’m sure he won’t do this again,” Brian responded.

  “He’s a thief. If he didn’t want it to come to this, he shouldn’t have stolen anything. That’s what these types of kids do,” the officer responded.

  “What do you mean ‘these types of kids’?” Brian asked.

  The officer ignored him and told me to “come on.” So I followed him and the other officer toward the door.

  I had never been more afraid in my life. Everything my mother and grandmother had taught me, I’d ignored. I knew they couldn’t help me after this.

  As the officer opened the door, Brian yelled, “I forgot to pay for the stuff!”

  I turned around to look at him, as did the officers.

  “What?” said one of the officers.

  Brian continued: “I should have said something already, but I was nervous. Sorry, everyone. He didn’t steal anything. I forgot to pay. He was helping me pick things for my daughter’s birthday. I’ll pay for everything now. You can let him go.”

  I was beyond confused. Why was this white man lying for me?

  “He’s lying, officer! He doesn’t even know him!” the security guard in the hoodie objected.

  “His name is Frederick, he’s eleven, and he’s a good kid. Let him go,” Brian said.

  “This is why these black kids never learn. They act like thugs and never deal
with any consequences,” the guard in the hoodie said.

  “Thugs? He’s a kid. Is that why you attacked an eleven-year-old and cut his arm?” Brian pointed at the blood running down my arm that I hadn’t realized was there.

  “Maybe you want to explain that to the news?” Brian continued. “How about you, officers? A white man asks an eleven-year-old kid to help him pick out birthday presents, and security decides to assault him, and the police arrest him. Even though the white man admitted it was his mistake.”

  The officers and security guards looked at one another for a second, and then one officer took his hand off my shoulder, looked at me, and said, “Get the hell out of here, kid.”

  I looked at Brian as the officer approached him, and I began to say, “He didn’t—”

  Brian cut me off, pulled out his wallet, and said, “It’s okay. Go.” I didn’t move.

  “Go!” Brian said again more firmly.

  I began to walk toward the exit. Before I left, Brian yelled, “Frederick!”

  I turned around, and he said, “Don’t forget to listen to your mother!” Then one of the officers pushed me through the door.

  Once I was out of the store, I ran from the mall. I didn’t bother going to the food court and finding Ryan or Vanessa. I ran to a bus stop and waited there, crying until a bus pulled up, and then I sat on the bus and cried until I got home, the whole time thinking about what I had just done, how close I had come to undoing everything I had been taught.

  I never told anyone what had happened. I also never explained to Ryan what happened after he ran, but I stopped being friends with him.

  I didn’t expect him to take the fall for me like Brian did, or put himself in harm’s way. But he left me like I was nothing.

  I never saw Brian again, though I thought about what he did for me for a long time. But I didn’t really understand it until I got older.

  What I did was wrong. But it seemed that Brian understood the bigger picture. Because I was Black, I wasn’t being treated as if I was a kid who had made a mistake.

  I wasn’t a thug, a thief, a liar, or an a**hole. I was just an eleven-year-old kid who made a mistake because he was tired of being bullied.