Brass Tacks: Russian Roulette

There’s a hunting term my dad always used when I was growing up: “run trash.” It explains itself in a way. If your dog is supposed to hunt a rabbit but picks up the wrong scent and chases that instead, it’s running trash. He wouldn’t explain it often, like most of his sayings and phrases. I grew up in a house full of them, which is probably why words mean so much to me.

I remember coming into the living room one day when I was younger, and he was watching Minority Report. A love of film and shows was passed down to his children, and I’ll pass it down too, for better or worse. It was one of the first scenes of the movie, where Anderton is defending the idea of PreCrime against Witwer. He rolls the ball, catches it, and Anderton asks him why he caught it. Witwer says, “Because it was going to fall.” Anderton asks whether he could be certain. Witwer agrees, saying yes, and Anderton tells him it didn’t fall because he caught it.

Clear as day, right? The fact that you prevent something from happening doesn’t change the fact that it was going to happen. I say that now, but those eyes lying on the couch, I remember thinking, “What is going on? Why would he roll the ball?” In more words or less.

So I asked my dad what happened, and he explained it to me in that way. In more words or less, “What is he talking about?” But this time, it was on my face. To this day, he still hears my confusion. Must be a father-son thing, I suppose. He raised his lip, disregarding the words used, and started how he always did: “Think of it like this. Forget about them and put yourself there. Or no, let’s say I’m there, and then Tom is across from me. Imagine we’re playing Russian Roulette.”

I said, “What is that?”

He looked surprised, which now makes me surprised that I didn’t know it at the time. But he went on to say it was like Grandpa’s Colt .45, but you put a bullet in it, spin it, place it against your head, and pull the trigger. Hence, Russian Roulette. I still didn’t know what roulette was, but it was best to let him keep the flow.

“So imagine Tom Cruise has the gun, and he puts a bullet in there, but the trigger doesn’t work, or he forgets the bullet, or maybe he just doesn’t decide to even pull the trigger. But me? They give me this .45. It’s wrapped in duct tape, rusted up, dirty, cuts my hands, but it’s got five of them in there, and it works like it was factory-built today. And Tom elects to do the deed himself and stands up, ready to walk away like he won the game.”

Again, I gave him more words or less, and he said, “In more words or less, PreCrime makes Tom Cruise and Colin Farrell right and puts you in the wrong. They can’t lose, and you and me just might be able to win.”

I shook my head yes. He unpaused the movie, and we finished Minority Report. For the next ten minutes afterward, I thought, “What is he talking about?” I envy those ten minutes now. Ignorance is bliss, but knowledge is a responsibility worth carrying. At least, that’s what I’ve told myself.

You see, because now I understand those bullets were the food deserts in Dayton. It was the economic situation my friends and family faced, the belief and the hope of us doing wrong, and the police in our area that cared nothing for us. With their modern-day crime analytics, they think we will commit a crime with and without it. They come into our neighborhood expecting us to commit a crime, and in turn, they make PreCrime real, arresting to make it so when it was never true. A game you were made to lose.

But after the movie was over, I asked my dad, “What about Joe? Is he playing the game right now?”

My dad looked at me, confused, and then got it. He raised the right side of his lip again and remarked, “Nah, Joe just stupid. He got the gun in his hand himself.”

I didn’t ask much past that. It felt like the line of questioning was over, but I think I should have fought more for one more shot at the buzzer back then. Maybe I could have done something, but probably not.

You see, Joe was fun. I loved playing with my big cousin, but he used to get into trouble a lot. His fault, not his fault, but you end up being seen as that cousin no one needs to be around, and the little cousin like me gets taken from around there. Maybe he did it for attention or love, or maybe he was just trying to find his place. I can’t really answer that. Not now. Not for him. Maybe I’ll ask when he gets out after these next twenty years, or maybe I’ll just be happy he made it home, or maybe I won’t see him again.

But with all the trouble he caused, I love Joe, and I’m okay being wrong in that. I don’t blame my dad for what he said. Might have been Joe’s fault. Might not have been. But does he deserve that? He can’t deserve it. I won’t accept it, and I can’t do much for Joe. Not now, at least. Maybe down the road, a short road, a long-long one, but one with a destination I hope to reach. Until then, though, Joe, you’re going to keep living on here, and this is always where you’re going to find my love, big cousin.

That same day, June 21st, we went over to Grandpa’s house. It was the best house in the neighborhood back then. I want to say it is now, even though he’s gone. The memories make it a palace worth more than any royalty deserves to step foot in. We were usually supposed to play outside because, being young, you weren’t allowed to hear “grown folks’ business.” That was taught vehemently to me, what it meant.

But Grandpa loved history and facts. He knew a lot, even though he never finished school because he had a farm to build, animals to raise, and game to hunt. Wasn’t time for that when you had nine mouths to feed and that white foot on your heels. But he knew. He knew so much about everything, like a personal encyclopedia. With all my degrees and words, Grandpa, I still can’t catch you. I hope I do someday for the grandbabies that I talk to.

But that day, he let me stay inside, and he got to talking about how June 21st was the same day the U.S. Constitution went into effect. After that fact was distilled, he made a remark: “Them crackas been running trash ever since.”

My dad laughed. I smiled, not truly knowing what it meant. A word he used often, with no love, only malice behind it. I can’t correct or blame him. I never saw his world, and I see mine today. His was worse, and mine is falling too.

For all the nuances and complexities I try to find, in those fields, hunting game, moving hay, tilling, repairing, walking miles and miles to somewhere, except places you can’t go, a weight heavy and consistent to be right when you are classified as a wrong, I’m sure he thought through those same nuances and complexities. That was the man he was.

But when you get old, you start to realize not everything is as complicated as you want it to be. As harsh as he was, he was too lenient that day. I find the Constitution was meant to do what it does and did, and it does what it was meant to do with efficacy so clear, so pristine, that if it did not hold me and my people back, I’d almost call it a masterwork. Maybe it is one still, meant to keep a people down, abuse and take from them what they like, using other minority groups to situate themselves around the concept of Black and white, and their proximity and distance from it all. A game of Russian Roulette, but the older I grow, I don’t think Tom ever held the gun to his head, and I doubt there are only five bullets in my Dad’s.

As I see the White House have a UFC show on its front lawn, as racist men fight and cheer and do air shows above and speak ill of the only Black First Lady and proceed to laugh, all while in my separate dilapidated world, I ask myself: What is this? Really, what is this? Have I failed already at twenty-four years old? Have I failed? I haven’t done enough. I’m not good enough. I’m not smart enough. I need to be more because this isn’t it. This isn’t allowed. I can’t allow it.

I want kids. I want to have love. I want to see friends I care for and so much more of the person I want and need to be. So why, then, do I watch a regression of the work my ancestors put forth to build? Why do I see the cheering of madmen sitting in plush, comfortable seats? My grandfather passed, and the neighborhood might as well have gone with him. My big cousin in a cell, counting days to a homecoming he might not ever see.

I sit here asking, what is this on this day that I am missing? What can I do? What is the solution, the answer to the question of a game of Russian Roulette decided before any bullet is loaded? Dogs running trash because they are told they can be white. What is this? What can I do?

I stop. I need to stop for a second and breathe. So I am. So I do.

And I remember my dad explaining PreCrime to me. I remember Grandpa’s hunting story and history. I can do that. That’s something I can do. It might be too late for my big cousin, and Grandpa can’t see me now, but I keep talking about running trash and putting ten on five and Russian Roulette and speaking love into my cousin’s name, because that’s what I can do.

Love and righteous rage. That is what I can do.

Stories I can tell. People I can laugh with and struggle beside. Those I can strangle and make constrict with words that wrap the Earth. I know who has the gun. I know who they keep letting run trash. So I can tell you. I can help you see that. I can be honest and make it like that clear sky that shines bright like a reflection, but a dream.

I may not know all the right answers, but I know the wrong ones. And the game may be rigged, but it’s always been that way. The rules were never meant for you. Their protection is not meant for you. It belongs to the system that justifies their wage. Your worth, your life, is a divine edict that requires nothing for it to have insurmountable value. But in this system, under this structure, your life isn’t worth protecting. The product is. Service and protection are not for the beating heart, but for clandestine fiat money and the full faith and credit of economic stability. The Skittles are worth protecting, not a young man’s life. The houses are worth protecting, not a young man’s life. Diapers are worth protecting, not a baby’s life.

But among these symptoms, this disease, you still need to walk. So many have before, and many will after, but there is an end to the waking dream. I have convinced myself, like the many before me, that there must be. Winning is not how they have defined it. It is not through their spectacle or domination. It is, among freedom, a thing that we share and hold with all hands. Because I’m going to be right there with you, and you with me. That is the first word in our definition of win, a word that refuses to show us an adamantine core and instead changes with the fluidity of time. It wasn’t the same as it was yesterday, and when it is your turn, it will have changed from what it is tomorrow. As long as we keep adding to that, that bond, that love, the solution will come. And you just walk forward because you know you have all that you need, amid so much more that is yet to come.