I’ve spent the past month-or-so, in part processing the demise of my relationship with Zachariah. Zachariah, who I’ve blogged about previously, is an 11-year-old black boy who – while we were spending time together – was living with his brother and Great Grandmother (along with various other relatives) in a small apartment in South Central LA. We were paired up by a well-known mentoring organization that arranges for men and boys to spend time with one another on a regular basis.
“What we doin’?” The 9-year-old Zachariah asks as he gets in the front seat of my Honda Civic. He confidently pulls the seat belt across his thin frame and secures the buckle. He awaits his answer. Zachariah is black. He’s got close-cropped hair with a little boy’s rat-tail – where he hasn’t allowed the hair to be trimmed in some time – it sticks out at the base of his skull. He’s wearing black jeans and some cute black Vans knock off sneakers. He’s a handsome kid. In contrast I’m a 42-year-old white guy. We are as unlikely a pair as you will find anywhere. Continue reading “No Offense… But You Are White”